ROMANCES  OF  OLD  FRANCE 


ROMANCES 

OF 

OLD  FRANCE 

BY 

RICHARD   Le  GALLIENNE 

AUTHOR    OF 

"old    LOVE   STORIES   RETOLD,"     "HOW   TO   GET   THE   BEST   OUT   OF 

BOOKS,"     "the   quest   OF   THE   GOLDEN   GIRL,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


publigljerg; 

33-37  East  I7(h  S'trcrl,    Uiiion  Square  North 
Ncv   York 


Copyright,  1905,  by  The  Baker  &  Taylor  Company 

Published,   October,   1905 


GIFT 


Publishers'  Printiiig  Company,  Netv   York,    U.S.A. 


PQ/30Z 


To  my  friend 
James  Carlton  Young 


M870034 


The  write?'  desires  to  thank  Mr. 
John  Brisben  Walker  for  Ids 
kindness  in  alloiring  the  rejwoduc- 
tion  of  Jour  of  the  following  stories 
which  originally  appeared  in  The 
Cosmopolitan. 


nimijajJA^JJ.!Jjaj.U.UJJJAKVI[JJJJ.J.I(AI.M/.^!J.V»JJU!X!^^ 


CONTENTS 

I 

King  F  lor  us  and  the  Fair  Jehane  11 

II 

Amis  and  Amile  35 

III 

The  Talc  of  King  Coustans  tJie  Em- 
peror 59 

IV 

Blonde  of  Oxford  and  Jehan  of  Dam- 
martin  85 

V 

Aucassin  and  Nicolete  119 

VI 

The  History  of  Over  Sea  141 


KING  FLORUS 
AND  THE  FAIR   JEHANE 


I.T.I.T.l.l.l.T.I.T.I.U.T.T.t.T.VI.T.I.IJ.1.1,T.I,t.I,l.l.l,l.'J.'J.'.l.'.I.'./.T.I.M.M.U.'.l.'.l.'.I.M.M.M.UAl.'X'J.'J 

ROMANCES  OF  OLD  FRANCE 

I.   King  Florus  and  the  Fair  Jehane 

ri^HE  prettiest  story,  except,  perha])s, 
-*-  "Aucassin  and  Nicolete,"  of  those 
which  such  lovers  of  old  French  literature 
as  Mr.  Lang  and  William  Morris  have 
rediscovered  for  us  is  the  "Tale  of  King 
Florus  and  the  Fair  Jehane."  Also,  it 
comes  to  us  in  its  English  dress  with  the 
advantage  of  having  been  translated  by 
William  Morris.  It  is  one  of  the  happi- 
est, least  mannered,  of  his  translations. 

With  its  central  incident  we  have  all 
been  familiar  since  we  read  "Cymbeline" 
— the  wager  about  a  w^ife's  honor.  Shake- 
speare, of  course,  found  his  motive  in  Boc- 
caccio, wdio  again  found  it  somewhere  in 

[11] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
folk-literature,    in   which    all   over 
the  world  it  is  of  common  occur- 
rence. 

The  story  really  ought  to  be 
called  the  "Tale  of  Squire  Robin 
and  the  Fair  Jehane" — for  King 
Florus  is  brought  in  for  little  more 
than  decoration.  The  old  medi- 
aeval romancers  were  great  snobs. 
No  doubt  they  had  to  be.  They 
depended  for  their  livelihood  upon 
the  fashionable,  moneyed  class, 
called  in  those  days  "the  great" 
and  in  later  times  "the  quality." 
No  one  under  tlie  degree  of  a 
knight  could  be  permitted  to  love 
within  their  high-bred  pages.  So 
the  author  of  "King  Florus  and 
the  Fair  Jehane"  evidently  felt 
that  the  loves  of  a  high-born  lady 
and  a  simple  squire,  however  beau- 

[12] 


Ki?ig  Floriis  and  the  Fair  "Jchane 
tifiil  and  hiiiiianly  touching,  needed 
to  be  set  in  a  gilded  frame  of  roy- 
alty to  make  the  ])ictnre  accepta- 
ble to  eyes  polite.  The  picture 
could  be  taken  out  of  the  frame, 
with  the  greatest  eiise,  and  the  real 
story  remain  complete. 

King  Florus,  indeed,  has  hardly 
more  to  do  with  it  than  the  con- 
ventional "Prince"  in  the  envoy  of 
a  ballad  has  to  do  with  the  ballad. 
It  is  apparent  that  in  his  heart  the 
old  romancer  cared  little  for  kings 
and  princes,  for,  after  telling  us  in 
perfunctory,  formal  fashion  that 
there  was  once  a  king  who  "had 
to  name  King  Florus  of  Ausay," 
married  to  the  daughter  of  the 
Prince  of  Brabant — both  happy. 
God-fearing    young    people,    who 

governed  well  and  led  useful  lives 
[13] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

— he,  with  undisguised  eagerness,  leaves 
them  at  once  to  tell  of  "a  knight  who 
dwelt  in  the  marches  of  Flanders  and 
Hainault." 

Now  tliis  knight  "had  to  wife  a  full 
fair  dame  of  whom  he  had  a  much  fair 
daughter,  who  had  to  name  Jehane  and 
was  then  of  the  age  of  twelve  years.  Much 
w^ord  was  there  of  this  fair  maiden ;  for  in 
all  the  land  was  none  so  fair."  As  Je- 
hane was  now  twelve  years  old,  her  moth- 
er was  naturally  anxious  to  have  her  mar- 
ried, and  she  w^as  forever  "admonishing" 
her  husband  on  the  subject;  but  he  was 
so  taken  up  with  "tournays"  that  he  gave 
it  but  little  thought. 

However,  one  day  as  he  rode  aw^ay 
from  tourney  with  his  valiant  and  well- 
beloved  Squire  Robin,  he  gave  the  sub- 
ject serious  attention.     Robin,  it  must  be 

said,  had,  quite  innocentlv,  promised  his 
[U] 


King  Florus  and  the  Fair  "Jehafie 
lord's  wife  to  recall  the  matter  to  the 
knight's  mind.  The  knight  had  done  so 
well  at  the  tourney,  borne  olf  "the  praise 
and  the  prize" — "by  means  of  the  good 
deeds  of  Robin,  his  squire" — that  he  was 
in  an  accessible  mood.  The  romancer 
gives  us  no  hint  that  Robin  had  any  ul- 
terior motive  when  he  impressed  upon  his 
lord  that  it  was  high  time  he  should  be- 
troth his  daughter.  The  outcome  of  his 
importunity  seems  to  have  been  as  little 
foreseen  by  him  as  by  the  reader.  The 
romancer  never  speaks  of  the  knight  by 
name,  but  he  has  succeeded  in  making 
him  live  for  us  as  a  singularly  attrac- 
tive, simple,  honest,  warm-hearted  man — 
a  man  whom  one  can  imagine  going  on 
"tournays"  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
to  escape  the  "polite"  atmosphere  of  his 
wife's  drawing-room.     The  conversation 

between  him  and  his  squire  deserves  to 
[15] 


Roffiances  of  Old  France 

be  read  in  its  entirety,  it  gives  the 
man  so  well:  '"Robin,  thou  and 
thy  lady  give  me  no  peace  about 
the  marrying  of  my  daughter;  but 
as  yet  I  know  and  see  no  man  in 
my  land  unto  whom  I  would  give 
her.'  'Ah,  sir,'  said  Robin,  'there 
is  not  a  knight  in  thy  land  who 
would  not  take  her  with  a  good 
will.'  'Fair  friend  Robin,  they  are 
of  no  avail,  all  of  them;  and  for- 
sooth to  no  one  would  I  give  her, 
save  to  one  man  only,  and  he  for- 
sooth is  no  knight.'  'Sir,  tell  me 
of  him,'  said  Robin,  'and  I  shall 
speak  to  him  so  subtly  that  the 
marriage  shall  be  made.'  'Certes, 
Robin,  thou  hast  served  me  ex- 
ceedingly well,  and  I  have  found 
thee  a  valiant  man,  and  a  loyal, 

and  such  as  I  be  thou  hast  made 
[16] 


King  Florus  ami  tlic  Fair  'Jchane 

me,  and  great  gain  have  I  gotten  by 
thee,  to  wit,  five  hundred  })ound.s  of 
hind;  for  it  was  but  a  httle  while 
that  I  had  but  five  luui(h'ed,  and 
now  have  I  a  thousand,  and  I  teh 
thee  that  I  owe  mucli  to  thee: 
wlierefore  will  I  give  my  fair 
daughter  unto  thee,  if  thou  wilt 
take  her.'  'Ha,  sir,'  said  Robin, 
'  God's  mercy,  what  is  this  thou 
sayest  ?  I  am  too  poor  a  person  to 
have  so  high  a  maiden,  nor  one  so 
fair  and  so  rich  as  my  damsel  is ;  I 
am  not  meet  thereto.  For  there 
is  no  knight  in  this  land,  be  he 
never  so  gentle  a  man,  but  would 
take  her  with  a  good  will.'  'Rob- 
in, know  that  no  knight  of  this 
hind  shall  have  her,  but  I  shall 
give  her  to  thee,  if  tliou  will  it;  and 

thereto  will  I  give  thee  four  hun- 
[17] 


Vif^ 


Romances  of  Old  France 

dred  pounds  of  my  land.'    'Ha,  sir,'  said 

Robin,  'I  deem  that  thou  mockest  me.' 

'Robin,'  said  the  knight,  'wot  thou  surely 

that  I  mock  thee  not.'     'Ha,  sir,  neither 

my  lady  nor  her  great  lineage  will  accord 

hereto.'    '  Robin,'  said  the  knight, '  naught 

shall  be  done  herein  at  the  will  of  any  of 

them.     Hold!    here  is  my  glove,  I  invest 

thee  with    four    hundred    pounds   of    my 

land,  and  I  will  be  thy  warrant  for  all.' 

'Sir,'  said  Robin, 'I  will  naught  nay-say 

it;  fair  is  the  gift   since  I   know  that  is 

soothfast.'       'Robin,'     said    the    knight, 

'now  hast  thou  the  rights  thereof.'    Then 

the  knight  delivered  to  him  his  glove,  and 

invested  him  with  the  land  and  his  fair 

daughter." 

But,  as  may  be  imagined,  this  disposal 

of  her  daughter's  hand  was  little  to  the 

taste  of  the  ambitious  and  elegant  mother. 

She  calls  her  familv  together — "  her  broth- 
'[18] 


King  Floriis  and  the  Fair  yehane 
ers,  and  her  nephews  and  her  cousins  ^er- 
main" — and  they  plead  with  the  knight. 
He  acts  with  his  usual  common  sense. 
There  are  many  rich  men  among  them, 
he  says:  will  any  one  of  them  give  her 
four  hundred  pounds  of  land  ?  If  so,  he 
will  give  her  elsewhere. 

"A-God's  name,"  is  their  answer,  "we 
be  naught  fain  to  lay  down  so  much." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  knight,  ** since 
ye  will  not  do  this,  then  sufiFer  me  to  do 
with  my  daughter  as  I  list." 

"Sir,  with  a  good  will,"  said  they. 

Thereupon  the  knight  made  a  knight 
of  Squire  Robin,  and  Robin  and  Jehane 
were  wedded  next  day. 

And  here  the  tale  begins.     Robin  had 

made  a  vow  to  visit  the  shrine  of  St.  James 

the    day    after    his    knighting — whatever 

that  day  should  be.     It  chanced  to  be  his 

marriage-day,    but   none   the   less   Robin 
[19] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

was  firm  on  his  vow,  in  spite  of 
criticism.  Every  one,  including 
his  old  master  and  friend,  took  it 
ill  of  him.  Yet  his  determination 
remained  unshaken.  Among  oth- 
ers who  mocked  him  was  a  certain 
Sir  Raoul,  a  black-hearted  knight 
who  offered  to  bet  four  hundred 
pounds  of  land  that  he  would  win 
away  the  Fair  Jehane's  love  before 
Sir  Robin's  return.  Sir  Robin 
takes  the  bet  gayly,  and  takes  the 
road  for  "Saint  Jakem." 

Now,  while  Sir  Robin  is  away, 
Sir  Raoul  tries  every  means  in  his 
power  to  win  his  wager,  but  in 
vain.  Finally,  a  few  days  before 
Sir  Robin's  return,  by  the  treach- 
ery of  her  waiting-maid,  he  sur- 
prises Jehane  as  she  is  taking  the 

rare  bath  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
[-20] 


King  Florus  and  the  Fair  Jehane 
descries  a  mole  upon  her  right 
thigh.  The  reader  will  here,  of 
course,  recall  "Cyrabeline." 

On  Sir  Robin's  return.  Sir  Raoul 
boldly  claims  the  foifeit,  and,  for 
token  that  he  has  really  won  his 
wager,  he  imparts  to  Sir  Robin  the 
information  thus  foully  obtained. 

Sir  Robin  on  the  morrow  pays  his 
forfeit  to  Sir  Raoul,  and  rides  away 
once  more,  sad  of  heart,  to  Paris. 
But  he  is  hardly  on  the  road  before 
Jehane  is  after  him.  Here  the  old 
romancer  tells  his  story  so  charm- 
ingly that  it  is  sacrilege  to  attempt 
to  retell  it. 

"  On  the  first  hour  of  the  night," 
we  read,  "the  lady  arose,  and  took 
all  pennies  that  she  had  in  her  cof- 
fer, and  took  a  nag  and  a  harness 

thereto,  and  gat  her  to  the  road; 
[21] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

and  she  had  let  shear  her  fair  tresses,  and 
was  otherwise  arrayed  Hke  to  an  esquire. 
So  much  she  went  by  her  journeys  that 
she  presently  came  to  Paris,  and  went 
after  her  lord;  and  she  said  and  declared 
that  she  would  never  make  an  end  before 
she  found  him.  Thus  she  rode  like  to  a 
squire.  And  on  a  morning  she  went  forth 
out  of  Paris,  and  wended  the  way  toward 
Orleans  until  she  came  to  the  Tomb  Isory, 
and  there  she  fell  in  with  her  lord.  Sir 
Robin.  Full  fain  she  was  when  she  saw 
him,  and  she  drew  up  to  him  and  greeted 
him,  and  he  gave  her  greeting  back  and 
said:  'Fair  friend,  God  give  thee  joy!' 
'Sir,'  said  she,  'whence  art  thou  't'  'For- 
sooth, fair  friend,  I  am  of  old  Hainault.' 
'  Sir,  whither  wendest  thou  't "  '  Forsooth, 
fair  friend,  I  wot  not  right  well  whither  I 
I  go,  nor  where  I  shall  dwell.  Forsooth, 
needs  must  I  where  fortune  shall  lead  me; 
[  2-2  ] 


King  F lor  us  and  the  Fair  'Jehane 

and  she  is  contrary  enough;  for  1  have 
lost  the  thing  in  the  world  that  most  I  ever 
loved;  and  she  also  hath  lost  me.  Withal 
I  have  lost  my  land,  which  was  great  and 
fair  enough.  But  what  hast  thou  to 
name,  wdiither  doth  God  lead  thee.^' 
'Certes,  sir,'  said  Jehane,  'I  am  minded 
for  Marseilles  on  the  sea,  where  is  war  as 
1  ho})e.  There  would  I  serve  some  val- 
iant man,  about  whom  I  shall  learn  me 
arms  if  God  will.  For  I  am  so  undone  in 
mine  ow  n  country  that  therein  for  a  while 
of  time  I  may  not  have  peace.  But,  sir, 
meseemeth  that  thou  be  a  knight,  and  I 
would  serve  thee  with  a  right  good  will  if 
it  please  thee.  And  of  my  company  w^ilt 
thou  be  naught  worsened.'  'Fair  friend,' 
said  Sir  Robin, '  a  knight  am  I  verily.  And 
where  I  may  look  to  find  war,  thitherward 
would  I  draw^  full  willingly.     But  tell  me 

what  thou  hast  to  name  't '    '  Sir,'  said  she, 
[23] 


I 


Komances  of  Old  France 
'I  have  to  name  John.'  'In  a 
good  hour,'  quotli  the  knight. 
'And  thou,  sir,  how  hight  thour' 
'John,'  said  he,  'I  have  to  name 
^^^^^^^^___..  Robin.'     'Sir  Robin,  retain  me  as 

jjr     7-^4  thine  esquire,  and  I  will  serve  tliee 

f^  >  . :    fCT  -  ^Q  j^^y  power.'     'John,  so  would  I 

with  a  good  will.     But  so  little  of 
money  have  I  that  I  must  needs 
'^     '^^"7^   >y  sell  my  horse  before  three  days  are 

worn.  Wherefore  I  wot  not  how 
to  do  to  retain  thee.'  'Sir,'  said 
John,  'be  not  dismayed  thereof, 
for  God  will  aid  thee  if  it  j^lease 
him.  But  tell  me  where  thou  wilt 
eat  thy  dinner .- '  '  John,  my  din- 
ner will  soon  be  made;  for  not  an- 
other penny  have  I  than  three  sols 
of  Paris.'  'Sir,'  said  John,  'be 
naught    dismayed    thereof,    for    I 

have  hard    on    ten  pounds  Tour- 
[24] 


King  Flams  ami  the  Fair  'Jchane 
nais,  whereof  thou  shalt  not  hick.' 
'Fair  friend  John,  liast  thou  niick- 
le  tlianks.' 

"Then  made  they  good  s])eed 
to  Montlhery:  there  John  (Hght 
meat  for  his  lord  and  they  ate. 
When  they  had  eaten,  the  knight 
slept  in  a  bed  and  John  at  his  feet. 
When  they  had  sle])t,  John  did  on 
the  bridles,  and  they  mounted  and 
gat  to  the  road." 

But,  alas!  nobody  wanted  sol- 
diers in  Marseilles,  and,  as  it 
was  palpably  impossible  for  a 
newly  made  knight  to  do  any- 
thing else  but  fight,  there  seemed 
nothing  for  Sir  Robin  or  his 
Squire  John  to  do  but  presently 
starve. 

But  here  Squire  John's  accom- 
plishments    as     a    woman     come 
[25] 


t 


Romances  of  Old  France 
charmingly   to   the     rescue;      he    makes 
this  proposal: 

"'Sir,'  said  John,  'I  have  yet  well  an 
hundred  sols  of  Tournay,  and  if  it  please 
thee,  I  will  sell  our  two  horses,  and  make 
money  thereby :  for  I  am  the  best  of  bak- 
ers that  ye  may  w^ot  of;  and  I  will  make 
French  bread,  and  I  doubt  me  not  but  I 
shall  earn  my  s])ending  well  and  bounti- 
fully.' 'John,'  said  Sir  Robin,  'I  grant  it 
thee  to  do  all  as  thou  wilt.' 

"So  on  the  morrow  John  sold  the  two 
horses  and  bought  corn  and  let  grind  it, 
and  fell  to  making  French  bread  so  good 
that  he  sold  it  for  more  than  the  ])est  baker 
of  the  towni  might  do;  and  he  did  so 
much  within  two  years  that  he  had  well 
an  hundred  pounds  of  chattels." 

Can  one  ever  eat  French  bread  again 

without   thinking   of   Sir   Robin   and   his 

faithful  squire  'f 

[26] 


King  Florus  and  the  Fair  Jchane 
The  fairy  bakery  continued  so  success- 
ful that  the  ambitious  Sfiuire  John  designs 
to  o})en  a  hostel.  "I  rede  thee  well,"  he 
says  to  Sir  Robin,  "tliat  we  l)uy  us  a  very 
great  house,  and  take  to  harl/oring  good 
folk." 

Sir  Robin  agrees  with  the  condescend- 
ing grace  of  a  born  aristocrat.  Tilings 
went  so  well  with  Squire  John's  loyal  in- 
dustry that  "Sir  Robin  had  his  palfrey, 
and  went  to  eat  and  drink  with  the  most 
worthy  of  the  town,  and  John  sent  him 
wine  and  victual  so  all  they  that  haunted 
his  company  marvelled  thereat." 

So  five  years  went  by,  and  all  this  time 
Sir  Robin  had  never  recognized  his  wife 
in  the  faithful  squire.  Xor  did  Sir  Raoul 
recognize  her  either,  passing  through 
Marseilles  and  inevitably  })utting  up  at 
Squire  John's  hotel  on  his  way  to  })eni- 

tential  ])ilgrimage  through  the  IIolv  Land. 
[  27  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

Sir  RaoiiFs  ])nest  had  im])osed 
this  j)enaiice  upon  him,  and  he 
liad  promised  that  on  his  return 
he  ^YOuhl  make  confession  of  his 
crime  and  restitution  of  his  wrong- 
fully gotten  lands.  All  this  he 
confides  unsusj^ectingly  to  Sf[uire 
John. 

After  a  while  Scpiire  John  works 
on  his  master  to  bring  about  his 
return  to  his  own  country.  Seven 
years  haye  they  been  in  Marseilles, 
and  grown  rich.  But  Sir  Robin 
hesitates.  Squire  John  reassures 
him,  and  adds,  "Doubt  thou  noth- 
ing, for  in  all  places,  if  it  please 
God,  I  shall  earn  enough  for  thee 
and  for  me."  At  last  Sir  Robin 
consents. 

Now  when  Sir  Robin  and  Squire 

John   arrived   in  their  own  conn- 
[-28] 


King  Floriis  a/id  the  Fair  ychafie 

try,  they  found  tliat  Sir  Raoiil  liad 
re})eiited  liini  of  liis  pious  impulse 
to  confession  and  tliat  he  still 
held  Sir  Robin's  lands.  Sir  Robin 
thereon  challenges  him  to  battle, 
and  does  so  mightily  against  him 
that  Sir  Raoul  begs  for  his  mercy 
— and,  that  being  granted  him, 
goes  overseas  and  so  out  of  the 
story.  Sir  Robin's  victory,  how- 
ever, seems  but  a  barren  one  for 
him,  for  his  wife  is  gone  no  man 
knows  whither,  and  his  faithful 
squire  has  not  been  seen  for  a 
fortnight.  Both,  however,  are  all 
this  time  comfortably  hidden  in 
the  boudoir  of  a  friendly  cousin  of 
the  Fair  Jehane,  engaged  in  mak- 
ing "four  pair  of  gowns" — "of 
Scarlet,  of   ^  air,  of  Perse,  and  of 

cloth  of  silk" — and  in  nursing  the 
[  ^9  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

womanly  beauty  which  liad  no  doubt  lost 
a  little  of  its  bloom  and  delicacy  in  the 
disguise  of  Squire  John. 

When  Jehane  is  adjudged  to  be  once 
more  her  fair  self,  she  is  revealed  duly  to 
her  husband.  So  great  was  their  joy  at 
meeting  again  that  they  embraced  to- 
gether "for  the  space  of  the  running  of 
two  acres  or  ever  they  might  sunder." 

And  very  soon  after,  Squire  John  is 
also  restored  to  the  lord  he  has  so  faith- 
fully served. 

"Thus,"  as  the  old  romancer  charm- 
ingly says,  "were  these  two  good  persons 
together." 

There,  properly,  the  story  ends;  but 
beauty  and  virtue  such  as  the  Fair  Je- 
hane's  cannot  be  finally  rewarded  by  any- 
thing short  of  a  royal  marriage.  So,  after 
many  years  of  haj^piness,  Jehane  is  left  a 
widow,  and  is  in  due  time  sought  in  mar- 
[  •'!'»  ] 


Khig  Floriis  and  the  Fair  Jehane 
riage  by  King  Floriis,  who,  all  this  long 
while,  has  been  vainly  hoping  for  an  heir 
to  his  kingdom.  His  first  loved  wife,  of 
whom  mention  was  made  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  story,  has,  at  the  instance  of 
his  disappointed  subjects,  been  placed  in 
a  nunnery;  and  a  second  wife  has  died 
leaving  him  still  childless. 

In  his  widowerhood,  friends  bring  him 
report  of  the  beauty  and  wisdom  of  the 
Fair  Widow  Jehane,  and  at  length  he  sets 
out  to  sue  for  her  hand.  This  she  gives 
him  with  appropriate  ceremonies — and 
this  time  the  prayers  of  King  Florus  were 
answered :  for  of  their  union  were  born  a 
daughter  who  had  to  name  Floria  and  a 
son  who  had  to  name  Florence.  This 
Florence  in  after  days  became  so  famous 
for  feats  of  arms  that  "he  was  chosen  to 
be   Emperor   of   Constantinople;"    while 

the   daughter  Floria    "became   queen    of 

[31] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

the  land  of  her  father,  and  tlie  son 
of  the  King  of  Hungary  took  her 
to  wife,  and  lady  she  was  of  two 
realms." 

So,  you  see,  we  take  leave  of  the 
Fair  Jehane  in  the  very  finest  com- 
})any.  But,  after  all,  one  likes  to 
think  of  her  best  in  that  little 
French  bakery  at  Marseilles.  Was 
there  ever  a  prettier  fairy-tale  of 
the  devotion  of  woman  't 


[3^2  J 


AMIS  AND  AMILE 


II 


Amis  and  Amile 

"  X    A  vie   (les   saints   martyrs  Amis  et 

-*-^     Amile"    is,     par    excellence,    the 

fairy-tale  of  friendship,    (ireater  love  than 

this  hath  no  man — that  he  giveth  his  life 

for  his  friend.     Yet  Amile  did  even  more 

than  that,  carried  the  ideal  of  rennncia- 

tory  comradeship  to  a  symbolic  extreme, 

which  in  actual  life,  as  in  the  story,  could 

be  justified   only  by  the   certainty   of  a 

miracle. 

The  love  of  Amis  and  Amile  began  with 

life,  as  it  was  ended — or  maybe  merely 

seemed  to  end — only  with  death.     Long 

ago,  in  that  suflficiently  legendary  ])eriod 

of   human    history    distinguished    l)y   the 
[35] 


Komances  of  Old  France 

story-teller  as  "in  the  time  of  Pe- 
pin,  King  of  France,"  a  child  was 
born  in  "the  Castle  of  Bericain," 
"of  a  noble  father  of  Alemaine, 
who  was  of  great  holiness."  The 
pious  parents  vowed  to  God — 
"and  Saint  Peter  and  Saint  Paul" 
— that  they  would  carry  their  child 
to  Rome  for  baptism.  Now  about 
the  same  time,  in  the  castle  of  "a 
Count  of  Alverne,"  similar,  in- 
deed identical,  things  were  hap- 
jjening.  The  Count  of  Alverne 
also  was  happy  in  a  new-born  son, 
and — assisted  by  a  heavenly  vision 
— he,  too,  decided  to  take  his  child 
to  Rome  for  baptism.  But  on  the 
same  pilgrimage,  the  two  parents, 
hitherto  unknown  to  each  other, 
met   at  Lucca;    "and  when  they 

found  themselves  to  be  of  one  pur- 
[30] 


Afnis  and  Amile 
pose,  tliey  joined  company  in  all 
friendliness  and  entered  Rome  to- 
gether. And  the  two  children  fell 
to  loving  one  another  so  sorely  that 
one  wonld  not  eat  without  the 
other,  they  lived  of  one  victual,  and 
lay  in  one  bed." 

So  the  friendship  of  Amis  and 
Amile  began  in  their  cradles,  and 
that  there  should  be  no  mistaking 
that  they  were  born  for  each  other. 
Nature,  who  predestines  for  us  all, 
had  made  them  so  alike  in  person 
and  character  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  tell  one  from  the  other.  As 
a  further  symbol  of  their  unity,  the 
"Apostle  of  Rome"  at  their  bap- 
tism— wher  "many  a  knight  of 
Rome  held  them  at  the  font  with 
mickle  joy,  and  raised  them  aloft 

even  as  God  would" — gave  to  each 
[37] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

of  them  a  cup  (a  "hanap")  wrought  of 
wood,  bound  w^ith  gokl  and  set  wdth  pre- 
cious stones;  the  two  cups  being  identical 
as  the  two  chikh"en.  Then  parents  and 
chikh-en  "betook  them  thence  home  in 
all  joyance,"  and  we  hear  no  more  of 
them  till  Amis  is  thirty  years  old,  with 
his  father  upon  his  deathbed.  The  old 
knight  of  Bericain  thus  addresses  the  son 
he  must  leave  behind,  and  wiser  or  more 
beautiful  advice  has  seldom  come  from 
the  dying.  Here  are  his  w^ords:  "Fair 
son,  well  beloved,  it  behooveth  me  pres- 
ently to  die,  and  thou  shalt  abide  and  be 
thine  ow^n  master.  Now  firstly,  fair  son, 
keep  thou  the  commandments  of  God; 
the  chivalry  of  Jesus  Christ  do  thou. 
Keep  thou  faith  to  thy  lords,  and  give  aid 
to  thy  fellows  and  friends.  Defend  the 
widows  and  orphans.     Uphold  the  poor 

and  needy:    and  all  davs  hold  thy  last 
[  38  ]  ■ 


Amis  and  Aniile 

day  in  memory.  Forget  not  tlie  fellow- 
ship and  friendship  of  the  son  of  the 
Count  of  Alverne,  whereas  the  A])ostle  of 
Rome  on  one  day  l)a})tized  you  both,  and 
with  one  gift  honored  you.  Ye  he  alike 
of  beauty,  of  fashion,  and  stature,  and 
whoso  should  see  you  would  deem  you 
to  be  brethren." 

So  the  father  died,  but  the  son  proved 
too  gentle  and  Christian  of  nature  to 
hold  his  own  against  the  enemies  that 
now  rose  up  against  him.  Ahvays  Amis 
turned  the  other  cheek,  and  so  it  fell  that 
he  was  despoiled  of  his  heritage.  In  his 
trouble  he  bethinks  him  of  his  old  friend 
and  fellow^  "Go  we  now,''  he  says,  "to 
the  Court  of  the  Count  Amile,  who  was 
my  friend  and  my  fellow.  Mayhappen 
he  w^ill  make  us  rich  with  his  goods  and 
his  havings." 

[  ^9  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
However,  on  arriving  at  Amile's 
castle,  tliey  find  that  Amile  is 
away — gone  to  comfort  Amis  for 
the  death  of  his  father.  So  the 
friends  miss  each  other,  and  for 
two  years  and  more  Amile  seeks 
A.mis,  and  Amis  Amile,  "in 
France  and  in  Alemaine."  Mean- 
while, Amis  incidentally  takes  a 
wife,  his  bride's  father  having 
heard  so  well  of  him  that  he  en- 
dows him  and  his  company  with 
gold  and  silver  and  "havings." 
Thns  Amis  and  his  "ten  fellows" 
abide  in  comfort  for  a  year  and 
a  half,  Amile  meanwhile  having 
songht  his  friend  "without  ceas- 
ing." One  cannot  but  note  that 
while  both  friends  no  doubt  love 
equally,  Amile  is  the  friend  who 

does  most  throughout  the  storv. 
[iO] 


Amis  cuid  Aniile 
At  tlie  end  of  tlio  year  and  a 
half,  the  conscience  of  Amis  smites 
him.  "We  have  done  amiss,"  he 
says,  "in  that  we  have  left  seeking 
of  Amile."  So  Amis  and  his 
knights  set  out  toward  Paris,  and 
after  various  adventures  are  sitting 
at  meat  "by  the  water  of  Seine  in 
a  flowery  meadow,"  when  a  com- 
pany of  French  knights  fall  upon 
them.  The  day  is  going  hard  with 
them,  when  Amis  cries  out,  "Who 
are  ye,  knights,  who  have  will  to 
slay  Amis  the  exile  and  his  fel- 
lows.^" 

"At  that  voice,"  says  the  story- 
teller, "Amile  knew  Amis  his 
fellow  and  said:  'O  thou  Amis 
most  w^ell  beloved,  rest  from  my 
travail,     I      am     Amile,     son      of 

the  Count  of  Alverne,   who  have 
[41] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

not  ceased  to  seek  tliee  for  two  whole 
years.'" 

The  friends  thereon  embraced  and, 
swearing  "friendship  and  fellowship  per- 
petual," betook  them  to  the  Court  of 
Charles,  King  of  France,  w^iere  they  be- 
came at  once  favorites  of  the  King,  Amis 
becoming  treasurer,  and  Amile  "server." 
"There  might  men  behold  them  young, 
w^ell  attempered,  wise,  fair,  and  of  like 
fashion  and  visage,  loved  of  all  and 
honored." 

So  abode  they  in  happiness  and  pros- 

})erity  for  three  years,  at  the  end  of  which 

time  it  suddenly  occurred  to  Amis  that 

he  was  married  and  had  not  seen  his  wife 

for   three   years!      "Fair    sweet   fellow," 

says  he  to  his  friend,  "I  desire  sore  to  go 

see  my  wife  whom   I  have  left  behind; 

and  I  will  return  the  soonest  that  I  may; 

and  do  thou  abide  at  the  Court."    To  this 
[42] 


Amis  and  Amile 

x\mis  adds  a  word  of  advice:  that  Amile 
should  keep  away  from  the  King's  daugh- 
ter and  that  he  should  above  all  thing-s 
beware  of  "Arderi  the  felon."  Now,  as 
might  ])erha})s  be  expected.  Amis  has  no 
sooner  departed  than  Amile  forgets  his 
commandment  and  teaching,  and — re- 
members the  King's  daughter;  "where- 
as," adds  the  monkish  story-teller,  "he 
was  no  holier  than  David  nor  wiser  than 
Solomon." 

Now  comes  "Arderi  the  felon"  with  a 
false  tale  against  Amis,  which  his  friend 
apjKirently  believes — namely,  that  Amis 
has  stolen  from  the  King's  treasury  and 
is  therefore  fled  away.  Thereon,  for 
some  unexplained  reason,  Amile  swears 
fealty  and  friendship  with  Arderi,  and 
unl)osoms  himself  concerning  the  King's 
daughter.    Arderi  reveals  the  secret  to  the 

King.    Amile  denies  the  charge  and  dial- 
[43] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

lenges    Arderi    to    the    ordeal    by 
battle. 

Meanwhile,  before  the  day  ap- 
pointed, Amile  meets  Amis  by 
chance  and  tells  him  what  has  be- 
fallen. "Then  said  Amis,  sighing: 
'  Leave  we  here  our  folk,  and  enter 
into  this  wood  to  lay  bare  our  se- 
cret.' And  Amis  fell  to  blaming 
Amile,  and  said:  'Change  we  our 
garments  and  our  horses,  and  get 
thee  to  my  house,  and  1  will  do 
battle  for  thee  against  the  trai- 
tor.'" The  point,  of  course,  of  the 
change  w^as  that  divine  justice  was 
supposed  to  preside  over  such 
duels  as  Amile  had  undertaken, 
and,  as  he  was  fighting  for  a  lie, 
he  must  logically  expect  to  fall  in 
battle.      With  Amis   in   his  place, 

justice    might    perhaps    be    hood- 

[44] 


Amis  and  Afiii/e 
winked.  So  man  has  thought  to 
deceive  the  justice  of  heaven  in  all 
ages.  The  friends  })art  from  each 
other  weeping,  Amis  making  his 
way  to  the  court  in  the  semblance 
of  Amile,  and  Amile  going  to  his 
friend's  house  in  the  semblance 
of  Amis — not,  however,  without  a 
word  of  warning  which  one  might 
have  deemed  unnecessary  between 
such  good  friends.  Thus,  after 
the  manner  of  Sigurd,  Amile 
placed  his  sword  between  him  and 
the  w^ife  of  Amis;  though  Amis 
had  so  little  confidence  either  in  his 
friend  or  in  his  wnfe  that,  we  read, 
"he  betook  himself,"  o'  nights, 
"in  disguise  to  his  house  to  wot  if 
Amile  kept  faith  with  him  of  his 
wife." 

But  this  time   Amile   acquitted 
[45] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
himself  better  than  either  David  or  Solo- 
mon, and  justified  the  faith  of  his  friend. 

Presently  comes  the  day  of  battle.  The 
false  Arderi  is  duly  vaufjuished,  his  head 
smitten  off,  and  Amis  rewarded  with 
Belisaut  the  King's  daughter,  whom  he 
honorably  transfers  to  his  friend.  So 
Amile's  affairs  prosper,  and  it  is  soon 
time  for  Amis  to  l)e  in  trouble  once  more. 
Heaven,  chastening  whom  it  loveth — as 
the  pious  chronicler  remarks — sends  upon 
Amis  the  scourge  of  leprosy.  He  be- 
comes so  "mesel"  that  his  wife  hates  him 
and  endeavors  ofttimes  to  strangle  him. 
In  this  sore  trouble,  the  heart  of  Amis 
turns  again  to  his  friend. 

But  when  he  reaches  the  Castle  of  Beri- 

cain,  Amile's  folk  do  not  recognize  Amis, 

and,  seeing  only   an  unclean  leper,  beat 

him  sore  and  drive  him  and  his  company 

away.     Thence  he  turns  to  Rome,  where 
M6] 


Amis  and  Amile 

he  is  hospitably  entertained  hy  the  Holy 

Fatlier  till  a  famine  falls  npon  the  land, 

a  famine  so  great  "that  the  father  had 

will    to    thrust    the    son    away    from    his 

house."     In  this  extremity  Amis  is  })orne 

once  more  to  the  city  of  the  Count  Amile. 

But  by  this  time  fortune  had  done  its 

worst.     So  soon  as  his  servants  sounded 

the    rattles    (or    clappers — "tartarelles") 

by  which  lepers  in  the  INIiddle  Ages  gave 

sign  of  their  approach,  Amile,  hearing  the 

sound,  sent  out  one  of  his  servants  with 

food  for  the  sick  man,  and  with  it  his  own 

birthcup  filled  with  wine.     As  yet  he  had 

no  knowledge  that  the  le}jer  was  Amis, 

but   when    his    servant   returned   he   told 

how^  the  sick  man  had  a  "hanap"  exactly 

like  his  master's;    and  so  Amis  became 

known  again  to  Amile  and  by  him  and  his 

wife  was  welcomed  lovingly  to  the  castle, 

leper  though  he  was. 

[47] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
But  the  siijH'eme  test  of  Amile's 
love  for  Amis  was  yet  to  come. 
One  night  as  tlie  two  friends  were 
sleeping  in  tlie  same  room,  the  an- 
gel Raphael  appeared  to  Amis  and 
bade  him  tell  Amile  that  if  he  were 
lo  slay  his  two  children  and  wash 
Amis  in  their  blood,  his  friend 
would  be  healed.  Amile  is  awak- 
ened by  the  s])eech  of  the  angel, 
and  bids  Amis  reveal  what  he  has 
heard.  Sorely  against  his  will, 
Amis  delivers  the  divine  message, 
and  in  much  tribulation  of  soul 
Amile  ponders  it.  At  length,  how- 
ever, his  sense  of  duty  toward  his 
friend  triumphs  over  his  love  for 
his  children,  and  he  girds  himself 
to  make  e/en  this  terrible  sacri- 
fice. And  heie  let  the  old  roman- 
cer take  ujj  the  tale  in  his  simple, 
[48] 


A)ni5  and  A  mile 
diiec't  fashion:  ''Tlien  Ainile  fell 
to  weeping  })rivily  and  thinking 
in  his  heart:  'This  man  forsooth 
was  ap])arelled  hefoie  the  King  to 
(lie  for  me,  and  why  shonld  1  not 
slay  my  ehildi'en  for  liim;  if  lie 
hath  kept  faith  with  me  to  the 
death,  why  keep  I  not  faith  r '   .   .   . 

"Then  the  (  ount  took  his  sword, 
and  went  to  the  bed  wheie  lay  his 
children,  and  fonnd  them  slee])ing, 
and  he  threw  himself  npon  them, 
and  fell  to  weeping  })itterly  and 
said:  'Who  hath  heai'd  ever  of  a 
father  who  of  his  own  will  hath 
slain  his  child  'i  Ah,  alas,  my  chil- 
dren! I  shall  l)e  no  more  yonr  fa- 
ther, })nt  yonr  crnel  mnrderer!'  .  . 

"When  he  had  so  said,  he  cut 

off  their  heads,  and  then  laid  them 

behind  the  bed,  and  laid  the  heads 
[49] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
to  the  bodies,  and  covered  them  over  even 
as  they  slept.  And  with  their  blood  which 
he  received,  he  washed  his  fellow,  and 
said:  'Sire  God,  Jesus  Christ,  who  com- 
mandest  men  to  keep  faith  upon  the 
earth,  and  who  cleansest  the  mesel  by  thy 
word,  deign  thou  to  cleanse  my  fellow, 
for  the  love  of  whom  I  have  shed  the 
blood  of  my  children.' 

"Then  was  Amis  cleansed  of  his  me- 
selry.  And  Amile  clad  him  in  his  own 
right  goodly  raiment;  and  therewith  they 
went  to  the  church  to  give  thanks  there, 
and  the  bells  by  the  grace  of  God  rang  of 
themselves.  And  when  the  people  of  the 
city  heard  that,  they  ran  all  together 
toward  that  marvel.   .   .   . 

"Now  was  come  the  hour  of  tierce,  and 

neither  the  father  nor  the  mother  was  yet 

entered  in  to  their  children ;  but  the  father 

sighed   grievouslv   for   the   death    of   his 
'  [  oO  ] 


Amis  and  Afnilc 
babes.     Then  the  Countess  asked  for  iier 
children  to  make  her  joy,  and  the  Count 
said:     'Dame,    let    be,    let    the    ehiklren 
sleep ! ' 

"Therewith  he  entered  all  alone  to  the 
children  to  weep  over  them,  and  found 
them  playing  in  the  l)e(l;  l>ut  the  scars  of 
their  wounds  showed  about  the  necks  of 
each  of  them  even  as  a  red  fillet. 

"Then  he  took  them  in  his  arms,  and 
bore  them  to  their  mother,  and  said: 
'  Make  great  joy,  dame,  whereas  thy  sons 
whom  I  had  slain  by  the  commandment 
of  the  Angel  are  alive  again,  and  by  their 
blood  is  Amis  cured  and  healed.' 

"And  when  the  Countess  heard  it  she 
said:  '  O  thou.  Count,  why  didst  thou  not 
lead  me  with  thee  to  receive  the  blood  of 
my  children,  and  I  would  have  washed 
therewith  Amis  thy  fellow  and  my 
Lord.^'" 

[  '^^l  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
Nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that  on 
the  self-same  day  that  Amis  was 
made  whole,  the  devils  l>ore  off 
his  inhuman  wife;  "they  brake 
the  neck  of  her,  and  bore  awav  her 
soul." 

So  the  love  of  Amis  and  Amile 
endured  through  life,  and  in  their 
death  they  were  not  divided,  for 
not  only  did  they  fall  in  battle  to- 
gether fighting  for  King  Charles 
against  the  Lombards,  but  heaven 
itself  set  this  hnal  seal  of  miracle 
u])on  their  love.  On  the  field  of 
INIortara  where  they  fell,  the  King 
built  two  churches,  dedicating  one 
to  St.  Eusebius  and  the  other  to  St. 
Peter.  In  one  church  was  buried 
Amis  and  in  the  other  Amile: 
"but  on  the  mori'ow's  morn  the 
body    of    Amile,     and     his    cofhn 


Amii  and  A  mile 
tliercwitlu  was  fouiK!  iu  the  churcli 
of  St.  Kiisehius  liai'd  hy  the  coifiii 
of  Amis  his  feUow."  Thus  it  came 
about  tliat  till  the  end  of  the  sev- 
eiiteeuth  eentui-y  tlie  names  of  tlie 
two  friends  were  to  he  found  side 
l)y  side  in  tlie  calendar  of  saints 
jind  maityrs. 

So   Holy   Church   blesses    a   hu- 
man love  and  hallows  it. 

The  story  of  Amis  and  Aniile  is 
one  well  known  in  many  forms  to 
folklorists.  It  is  to  be  met  with 
in  many  languages,  and  leained 
authorities  differ  as  to  its  origin. 
Some  claim  that  it  came  from  the 
East  and  some  from  (ireece,  and 
some  that  it  is  founded  on  actual 
historic  incidents  of  the  wars  of 
Charlemagne.  Mr.  Josej)h  Ja- 
cobs (in  his  introduction  to  ^^  ill- 
[53  1 


Romances   of  Old  France 

iam  Morris's  translation — "Old  French 
Romances,"  Scribner's  Sons)  points  ont 
that  the  names  of  the  heroes  are  clearly 
Latin — Amicus  and  ^imilius;  and  also 
refers  to  the  fantastic  conjecture  that  the 
proverb,  "A  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile," 
has  its  explanation  in  this  old  story. 
Those  who  seek  learning  on  the  su})ject 
may  find  it  in  Mr,  Jacobs's  introduction 
above  referred  to,  and  by  him  l)e  intro- 
duced to  other  authorities.  Walter  Pa- 
ter's essay  on  "Two  Early  French  Sto- 
ries" in  his  volume  on  the  Renaissance 
was  probal)ly  the  first  introduction  of  the 
story  to  most  English  readers,  William 
Mon-is  following  with  the  translation 
from  which  I  have  quoted.  The  original 
may  be  found  in  that  pretty  scries  the 
Bihlioth^que  Elzeviriemie,  and  the  ecclesi- 
astical legend  of  the  two  friends  in  the 
Acta  Sanctorum. 

[  -M  ] 


Amis  mid  Amilc 
The  charm  of  the  romance  is  mainly  in 
the  story  itself,  and  but  little  in  its  form, 
which  is  often  crude  and  merely  quaint, 
and  seldom  interesting  from  a  dramatic 
or  literary  point  of  view.  There  is  no 
note  in  it  of  that  poignancy  of  feeling 
which  we  find  in  David's  lament  for  Jona- 
than, or  in  "Tennessee's  Pardner";  but 
the  story  itself  is  sufficiently  eloquent, 
eloquent  of  an  ideal  of  human  loyalty 
which  takes  friendship  rather  than  love 
for  its  supreme  expression — seeming  in- 
deed to  suggest  that  there  is  something 
finer  about  friendship  than  love — some- 
thing, might  one  say,  less  selfish,  more 
essentially  divine.  "Passing  the  love  of 
woman"!  It  is  to  be  remembered  that 
that  famous  phrase  was  made  by  a  great 
lover  of  women,  by  the  lover  of  Bath- 
sheba,  the  man  who  placed  Uriah  in  the 

front  of  the  battle.     David  had  known 
[55] 


Ro77iances  of  Old  France 
both    love  and  friendship,  but  we 
say  "David   and   Jonathan" — not 
David  and  Bathsheba. 


[06] 


THE   TALE  OF  KING  COUSTANS 
THE  EMPEROR 


|JXMA^^^JJ^^OTXC[JJJJJ.u^^^^^lJJAI■^^J,l.^lJa,^^|.^^^!.^^^^l^^JJJJCIr!Ia^^ 


III 


The  Tale   of  King   Coustans   the 
Emperor 

^TTIIILE  no  less  picturesque  than  the 
^  "  two  romances  we  have  already 
considered,  the  Tale  of  King  Coustans 
the  Emperor  is  perhaps  even  more  im- 
portant than  any  of  them  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  literaiy  antiquarian.  Its 
significance  in  this  respect  is  somewhat 
fully  set  out  by  Mr.  Jacobs,  with  his  ac- 
customed learning,  in  his  introduction  to 
William  Morris's  "Old  French  Roman- 
ces." For  the  fulness  of  knowledge  the 
reader  is  referred  to  Mr.  Jacobs.  Here  it 
will  suffice  to  hint  at  one  or  two  points  of 
that  antiquarian  interest  which  Mr.  Jacob 
more  fully  develops. 

[  •"'0  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
The  story  affords  a  striking  illus- 
tration of  that  intercourse  between 
East  and  West  which  was  brought 
about  by  the  Crusades,  and  to  which 
Western  thought  owed  so  much  of 
its  early  quickening.  "  Permanent 
bonds  of  culture,"  says  Mr.  Ja- 
cobs, "began  to  be  formed  be- 
tween the  extreme  East  and  the 
extreme  West  of  Europe  by  inter- 
marriage, by  commerce,  by  the  ad- 
mission of  the  nobles  of  Byzantium 
within  the  orders  of  chivalry. 
These  ties  went  on  increasing 
throughout  the  twelfth  century  till 
tliey  culminated  at  its  close  with 
the  foundation  of  the  Latin  king- 
dom of  Constantino])le." 

Till  this  ])eriod,  of  course,  Con- 
stantinople   had    retained    its    an- 
cient name  of  Byzantium ;  and  our 
['60  ] 


Khig  Coustans  the  Emperor 
story  has  a  furtlier  historical  inter- 
est in  that  it  professes  to  be  the  le- 
gend of  how  the  name  was  changed. 
In  the  Old  French  form  of  the 
story,  the  metrical  romance  from 
which  William  Morris  made  his 
version,  the  'M)it  de  Fempereur 
Constant,"  occnr  these  lines: 

"Pour  ce  (jui  si  nobles  ostoit, 
Et  que  nobles  oevres  faisoit, 
L'appielloient  Consiant  Ic  noble, 
Et  pour  you  ot  Co)isia)ifin noble, 
Li  cytes  de  Bissencc  a  non  " — 

which  may  be  freely  translated: 

"  So  noble  was  he, 
So  noble  were  his  deeds, 
That    men    called     him    Constant    the 

Noble, 
And  from  that,  Constantinople, 
The  [old]  city  of  Byzantium,  takes  its 

name." 

We  shall  come  nj)on  still  another 

etymology    in    the    conrse    of    the 
[01] 


Komances  of  Old  France 
story;  and  we  may  note  that  this  old  ro- 
mance takes  no  accomit  of  a  certain  Con- 
stantine  the  Great  with  whom  more  offi- 
cial history  associates  the  name  of  the 
city. 

The  story  itself  may  have  come  as  far 
as  from  India  and  reached  Constantino- 
})le  via  Arabia  and  Greece;  and  the  Rev. 
Sabine  Baring  -  (xould  has  found  it, 
slightly  disguised,  so  near  home  as  in 
Yorkshire.  You  can  find  it,  too,  in 
Grimm  under  the  title  of  "The  Devil 
with  Three  Golden  Hairs."  Perhaps 
it  may  interest  the  reader  to  compare 
the  Yorkshire  version,  as  told  by  Mr. 
Jacobs,  with  the  story  as  told  by  William 
Morris  from  the  Old  French.  The  story 
is  entitled  "The  Fish  and  the  Ring,"  and 
is  as  follows : 

"A  girl  comes  as  the  unwelcome  sixth 

of  the  family  of  a  very  poor  man  who 
[62] 


King  Coustcuis  the  Kniperor 

lived  under  the  shadow  of  York  Minster, 
A  Knight,  riding  by  on  the  chiy  of  hei- 
birth,  discovers,  by  consultation  of  the 
Book  of  Fate,  that  she  is  destined  to 
marry  his  son.  He  offers  to  adopt  her, 
and  throws  her  into  the  River  Ouse.  A 
fisherman  saves  her,  and  she  is  again  dis- 
covered after  many  years  by  the  Knight, 
who  learns  what  Fate  has  still  in  store  for 
his  son.  He  sends  her  to  his  brother  at 
Scarborough  with  a  fatal  letter,  ordering 
him  to  put  her  to  death.  But  on  the  way 
she  is  seized  by  a  band  of  robbers,  who 
read  the  letter  and  re])lace  it  by  one  or- 
dering the  Baron's  son  to  be  married  to 
her  immediately  on  her  arrival.  When 
the  Baron  discovers  that  he  has  not  been 
able  to  evade  the  decree  of  fate,  he  still 
persists  in  her  persecution,  and  taking 
a  ring  from  his  finger  throws  it  into  the 
sea,  saying  that  the  girl  shall  never  live 
[  0.')  ] 


A"^^    ^^"'f    ^^- 


Romances  of  Old  France 

with  his  son  till  she  can  show 
him  that  ring.  She  wanders  al)out 
and  becomes  a  scnilery-maid  at 
a  great  castle,  and  one  day 
W'hen  the  Baron  is  dining  at  the 
castle,  while  cleaning  a  great  fish 
she  finds  his  ring,  and  all  ends 
hap))ily." 

With  this  ]>reliminary  note  let 
ns  tni'n  to  onr  story: 

While  (\)nstantino])le  was  still 
known  nnder  its  old  name  of  By- 
zantium, it  was  ruled  over  by  a  cer- 
tain P^mpei-or  Musselin—  known 
only,  one  may  add,  to  romance. 
This  Musselin  was  of  course  a 
"paynim,"  and,  ecclesiastically 
s])eaking,  a  lost  soul;  hut,  for  all 
that,  he  appeal's  to  have  been  a  wise 
and  much  cultivated  man;  and  he 
was  particularly  learned  in  those 


Ki?ig  Coustans  the  Emperor 
forbidden  sc-iences  by  which  man  is 
able  to  read  tlie  stars  and  consult 
the  devil.  After  the  manner  of 
Eastern  ])otentates,  he  was  <ji;iven 
to  loamino;  tlie  streets  of  his  city  at 
nitijhtfall,  incognito,  and  on  one  oc- 
casion being  thus  out  in  search  of 
adventure,  accom])anie(l  l)y  one  of 
his  knights,  he  came  by  a  house 
wherein  was  a  woman  in  sore  trav- 
ail of  child-bearing.  She  was  a 
Christian  woman,  and  as  the  l''ni- 
peror  and  his  companion  stayed 
their  steps  beneath  her  window 
and  hearkened  to  hei-  cries,  they 
became  aware  of  her  husl)and 
aloft  in  a  high  solar  })raying  aloud 
to  his  (jod  in  a  mamiei-  which 
caused  them  nmch  surprise  and 
s])ec-ulation. 

At  one  moment  he  ])rave(l  that 

[  «■'  ] 


Romances   of  Old  France 
she  might  be  dehvered,   and  at  anotlier 
prayed  that  she  might  not. 

Mystified  by  this  strange  prayer,  and 
angered  by  what  seemed  to  him  a  hick  of 
chivahy  toward  a  woman  in  her  extrem- 
ity, the  Emperor  determined  to  question 
the  husband. 

"So  hel}>  me  iVlalioume  and  Terma- 
gaunt!"  he  swore,  "if  I  do  not  hang  him, 
if  he  betake  him  not  to  telhng  me  reason 
wlierefore  he  doeth  it!  Come  we  now 
unto  him." 

So  they  went  into  the  house,  and  the 
husband,  in  no  wise  recognizing  the  Em- 
peror, made  no  conceahnent  of  his  rea- 
sons for  his  strange  prayer.  He  was,  lie 
tohl,  a  student  of  astrology,  and  watching 
the  stars  while  his  wife  was  in  travail,  he 
perceived,  by  the  signs  in  the  heaven, 
certain  moments  when  it  would  be  pro- 
pitious for  their  child  to  be  born,  and 
[00] 


King  Coustans  the  E/fiperor 
certain  other  moments  when  for  liini  to 
be  born  would  mean  certain  jxMcIition. 
Therefore,  at  the  propitious  moments  he 
prayed  to  (iod  for  his  wife  to  be  dehv- 
ered,  and  at  the  unpropitious  moments 
he  prayed  for  her  dehvery  to  be  stayed; 
and  so  well  had  his  knowledge  and  his 
prayers  availed  that,  at  the  moment  of 
the  stranp;ers  addressin<»;  him,  a  nian- 
child  had  been  born  in  a  good  hour. 

"  How  in  a  good  hour  ?"  asked  the  Em- 
peror; and  the  man,  still  unsuspecting, 
answered  that  his  son  was  destined  to 
marry  the  diiughter  of  the  Emperor,  then 
eight  days  old,  and  that  some  day  he 
would  become  lord  of  the  city  and  em- 
peror of  the  whole  earth. 

Concealing   his    anger   at   this    strange 

answer,    the   Em])eror   })rivily   instructed 

his  knight  to  carry  away  the  new-born 

babe  and  bring  it  to  his  palace;    and  this 
[07] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

the  knight  in  no  long  time  was 
able  to  accomplish — for  the  women 
were  so  busied  an  anp-ino;  the  moth- 
er  that  they  took  no  note  of  the 
knight  as  he  stole  into  the  room 
and  found  the  babe  lying  wra])ped 
in  linen  upon  a  chair. 

When  the  Eni])eror  saw  the 
child,  he  was  so  filled  with  hatred 
of  it  that  he  took  a  knife  and  slit 
its  breast  right  down  to  its  navel. 
He  made  even  to  tear  out  its  heart, 
but  the  knight  begged  him  to  de- 
sist, pioinising  to  take  it  away  and 
drown  it  in  the  sea. 

Now.  as  the  knight  carried  the 
babe  toward  the  sea-shore,  his 
heart  softened,  and  instead  of 
drowning  it,  he  left  it  wra])})ed 
in     a    silken    coverlet    before    the 

gate  of  a  certain  abl)ev  of  monks, 

[68] 


Kifig  Coustans  the  Rnipcror 

wlu)  were  even  then  .at  tlieir  ma- 
tins. 

Presently  tlie  monks  lieard  the 
eliikl  cryino",  and,  goino;  to  tlie  <2;ate, 
found  it  there  and  })rouo;lit  it  to 
the  ah])ot,  who,  seeing  that  it  was 
a  comely  child,  determined  to 
nourish  and  rear  it.  Ilayino-,  too, 
discoyered  its  wound,  he  sent  for 
leeches  and  demanded  of  them  for 
what  sum  they  would  heal  him. 

And  here  comes  in  the  second 
])unnino;  etymology  of  the  city  of 
Constantinople  to  which  I  haye 
previously  referred. 

The  leeches  asked  a  hundred 
bezants  for  their  services;  but  to 
this  sum  the  abbot  demurred  as 
excessive,  and  finally  arranged  to 
pay  fourscore  bezants.  Thereon 
he  baptized  the  infant  and  named 


^^-^^ 


Ro??jances   of  Old  France 
him  Coiistans,  because,  he  said,  "  he  costed 
exceeding  much  for  the  heaUng  of  him." 

But,  behke,  this  was  merely  a  pleasan- 
try on  the  part  of  the  abbot,  for  he  neg- 
lected naught  that  was  needed  for  the 
child's  upbringing.  Good  nurses  he 
found  him,  and,  when  he  had  reached 
the  age  of  seven,  found  him  good  teach- 
ers, so  that  he  was  soon  learned  beyond 
his  years;  and  when  Coustans  was  some 
twelve  years  old,  so  comely  and  clever  a 
lad  was  he  that  the  abbot  loved  to  have 
him  in  his  sight  and  would  take  him  to 
ride  abroad  with  him  in  his  retinue. 

Now"  it  chanced  that,  when  Coustans 

was  fifteen,  the  abl)ot  had  some  ground 

of  complaint  to  lay  l^efore  the  Emperor — 

who  was  liege-lord  of  the  abl^ey — and  the 

Emperor  having  appointed  a  day  for  the 

audience,  the  abbot  a])])eared  before  him; 

and  the  lad  Coustans  was  in  his  train. 
[  70  ] 


Ki?ig  Coustans  the  Emperor 
When  the  business  liad  })een  conchided 
between  the  abbot  and  the  Emperor,  the 
Emperor  noted  the  handsome  boy  and 
asked  eoncerning  him.  Thereon  the  ab- 
bot tohl  him  the  story:  How  tlie  monks 
had  found  liim  at  tlie  abbey  (k)or  some 
fifteen  years  ago,  and  how  sorely  and  in 
what  manner  he  had  been  wounded,  and 
how  lie  had  been  healed  and  nurtured 
and  schooled  at  the  abbey;  and  as  the 
Emperor  heard  the  story,  he  understood 
that  Coustans  was  the  child  whom  he  had 
wounded  years  ago  and  given  to  his  knight 
to  cast  into  the  sea — but  of  this  he  made 
no  sign,  only  communed  with  himself  as 
to  how  he  might  get  the  boy  into  his 
power. 

Thus  he  asked  the  abbot  to  give  him  to 
him  for  his  own  train,  and  the  abbot  an- 
sw^ered   that   he   must   first   sj)eak   of  the 

matter  to  his  convent,  and  so  went  his  way. 
[71] 


Rofnances  of  Old  France 

Now  tlie  monks,  fearing  the 
wiiitli  of  the  Em])eror,  counselled 
the  abbot  that  the  Emperor  should 
have  his  desire;  and  thus  Coii- 
stans  was  taken  to  the  court  and 
given  into  the  hands  of  his  enemy. 

15ut  the  Emperor  could  not  for 
a  time  devise  a  means  how  he 
might  slay  the  boy;  yet  soon  there 
were  matters  arising  which  took 
him  on  a  long  journey  to  the  bor- 
ders of  his  kingdom,  and  he  took 
Coustans  with  him.  Then,  one 
day  when  he  was  still  far  distant 
from  his  ca])ital,  he  wrote  a  letter 
to  the  burgonuister  of  Byzantium, 
and  bade  Coustans  ride  night  and 
day  till  he  c-ame  to  the  city.  And 
the  letter  which  the  boy  carried 
was  on  this  wise:    "I,  Emj^eror  of 

Byzance  and  Lord  of  Greece,  do 

[7'2] 


King  Coustans  the  E/npcror 

tliee  to  wit  who  al)i(lest  duly  in  my 
place  for  the  warcHiig  of  my  hiiui; 
and  so  soon  as  tlion  seest  this  letter 
thou  shalt  slay  or  let  slay  him  who 
this  letter  shall  bear  to  thee,  so 
soon  as  he  has  delivered  the  said 
letter  to  thee,  without  longer  tar- 
rying. As  tliou  holdest  dear  thine 
own  pro|:er  hody,  do  straightway 
my  commandment  herein." 

So  Coustans,  knowing  not  that 
it  was  his  own  death  that  he  car- 
ried in  his  wallet,  made  such 
haste  upon  his  journey  that  he  ar- 
rived at  Byzantium  within  fifteen 
days. 

And  here  the  story  goes  so  pret- 
tily in  WilHam  Morris's  version 
that  it  would  l)e  unfair  to  the 
reader  to  attempt  another: 

"  When  the  lad  entered  the  city 
[  73  1 


'Romances  of  Old  France 
it  was  the  hour  of  dinner;  so,  as  God 
would  have  it,  he  thought  that  he  w^ould 
not  go  his  errand  at  that  nick  of  time,  but 
would  tarry  till  folk  had  done  dinner: 
and  exceeding  hot  was  the  weather,  as  is 
wont  about  St.  John's-mass.  So  he  en- 
tered into  the  garden  all  a-horseback. 
Great  and  long  was  the  garden;  so  the 
lad  took  the  bridle  from  off  his  horse  and 
unlaced  the  saddle-girth,  and  let  him 
graze;  and  thereafter  he  w^ent  into  the 
nook  of  a  tree;  and  full  pleasant  was  the 
place,  so  that  presently  he  fell  asleep. 

"Now  so  it  fell  out,  that  when  the  fair 
daughter  of  the  Emperor  had  eaten,  she 
went  into  the  garden  with  three  of  her 
maidens;  and  they  fell  to  chasing  each 
other  about,  as  whiles  is  the  wont  of 
maidens  to  play;  until  at  last  the  fair  Em- 
peror's   daughter    came    under   the    tree 

whereas  Coustans  lay  a-sleeping,  and  he 
[74] 


King  Coustans  the  Emperor 
was  all  vermeil  as  the  rose.  And  wlieii 
the  damsel  saw  him,  she  beheld  him  with 
a  right  good  will,  and  she  said  to  herself, 
that  never  on  a  day  had  she  seen  so  fair 
a  fashion  of  man.  Then  she  called  to  her 
that  one  of  her  fellows  in  whom  she  had 
the  most  affiance,  and  the  others  she 
made  to  go  forth  from  out  of  the  garden. 

"Then  the  fair  Maiden,  daughter  of 
the  Emperor,  took  her  fellow  ])y  the  hand, 
and  led  her  to  look  on  the  lovely  lad 
whereas  he  lay  a-sleeping;  and  she  spake 
thus :  '  Fair  fellow,  here  is  a  rich  treasure. 
Lo  thou!  the  most  fairest  fashion  of  a 
man  that  ever  mine  eyes  have  seen  on  any 
day  of  my  life.  And  he  beareth  a  letter, 
and  well  I  would  see  what  it  sayeth.' 

"So  the  two  maidens  drew^  nigh  to  the 

lad,  and  took  from  him  the  letter,  and 

the   daughter   of  the   Emperor  read  the 

same;   and  when  she  had  read  it,  she  fell 
[75] 


Romanct's  of  Old  France 
a-lamenting  full  sore,  and  said  to 
her  fellow;  '(Vrtes,  here  is  a  great 
grief!'  'Ha,  my  Lady  I'  said  the 
other  one,  'tell  me  what  it  is/  'Of 
a  surety,'  said  the  Maiden, 'might 
I  but  ti'ow  in  thee  I  would  do  away 
that  sorrow!'  'Ha,  Lady,'  said 
she,  'hardily  mayest  thou  trow  in 
me,  whereas  for  naught  would  I 
uncover  that  thing  which  thou 
wouldest  have  hid.' 

"Then  the  Maiden,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Emjjeror,  took  oath  of 
her  according  to  the  ])aynim  law; 
and  thereafter  she  told  her  what 
the  letter  said;  and  the  damsel 
answered  her:  'Lady,  and  what 
wouldest  thou  dor"  '1  will  tell 
thee  well,'  said  the  daughter  of  the 
Emperor;    '1  will  put  in  his  pouch 

another    letter,    wherein    the    Em- 

[76] 


King  Coustans  the  Emperor 

peror,  my  father,  biddeth  liis  Biir- 
greve  to  give  me  to  wife  to  this  fair 
child  here,  and  that  lie  make  great 
feast  at  the  (loiny;  of  the  weddino; 
unto  all  the  folk  of  this  laud; 
whereas  he  is  to  wot  well  that  the 
lad  is  a  high  man  and  a  loyal.' 

"When  the  damsel  had  heard 
that,  she  said  that  would  be  good 
to  do.  '  But,  Lady,  how  wilt  thou 
have  the  seal  of  thy  father  ':' '  '  Full 
well,'  said  the  Maiden,  'for  my 
father  delivered  to  me  four  pair  of 
scrolls,  sealed  of  his  seal  thereon; 
he  hath  written  naught  therein; 
and  1  will  write  all  that  I  will.' 
'Lady,'  said  she,  'thou  hast  said 
full  well;  l)ut  do  it  speedily,  and 
haste  thee  eie  he  awakeneth.'  'So 
will  I,'  said  the  Maiden. 

"Then    the    fair    Maiden,     the 

[77] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
daughter  of  the  Eni}:>eror,  went  to  her 
coffers,  and  drew  thereout  one  of  the  said 
scrolls  sealed,  which  her  father  had  left 
her,  that  she  might  borrow  money  there- 
by, if  so  she  would.  For  ever  was  the 
Emperor  and  his  folk  in  war,  whereas  he 
had  neighbors  right  felon,  and  exceeding 
mighty,  whose  land  marched  upon  his. 
So  the  Maiden  wrote  the  letter  in  this 
wise : 

"'I,  King  Musselin,  Em])eror  of 
Greece  and  of  Byzance  the  city,  to  my 
Burgreve  of  Byzance  greeting.  I  com- 
mand thee  that  the  bearer  of  this  letter  ye 
give  to  my  fair  daughter  in  marriage  ac- 
cording to  our  law;  whereas  I  have  heard 
and  wot  soothly  that  he  is  a  high  person, 
and  well  w^orthy  to  have  my  daughter. 
And  thereto  make  ye  great  joy  and  great 
feast  to  all  them   of  my  city  and  of  all 

my  land.' 

[78] 


King  Coustans  the  Rmperor 

"In  such  wise  wrote  aiul  said  the  letter 
of  the  fair  daughter  of  the  Emjjeror;  and 
when  she  had  written  the  said  letter,  she 
went  back  to  the  garden,  she  and  her  fel- 
low together,  and  they  found  that  one  yet 
asleep,  and  they  })ut  the  letter  into  his 
])oucli.  And  they  then  began  to  sing  and 
make  noise  to  awaken  him.  So  he  awoke 
anon,  and  was  all  astonied  at  the  fair 
Maiden,  the  daughter  of  the  Emperoi*, 
and  the  other  one  her  fellow,  who  came 
before  him;  and  the  fair  Maiden,  daugh- 
ter of  the  Emperor,  greeted  him;  and  he 
greeted  her  again  right  debonairly.  Then 
she  asked  of  him  what  he  was,  and 
whither  he  went;  and  he  said  that  he 
bore  a  letter  to  the  Burgreve,  which  the 
Emperor  sent  by  him;  and  the  Maiden 
said  that  she  would  bring  him  straight- 
way whereas  was  the  Burgreve.  There- 
with she  took  him  l)y  the  hand,  and 
[7!)] 


Romances   of  Old  France 

brought  him  to  the  jjalace,  where 
there  was  iiiueli  folk,  who  ah  rose 
against  the  Maiden,  as  to  her  who 
was  their  Lady." 

All  went  hapj)ily  as  the  Princess 
devised.  The  Burgreve  knowing 
full  well  the  seal  of  his  lord  the 
Emperor,  and,  moreo\er,  delight- 
ing in  the  union  of  so  fair  a  maid 
with  a  s<|uire  of  such  noble  bear- 
ing, ])ut  no  obstacle  in  their  way. 
Coustans  and  the  Princess  were 
married,  and  the  old  ))ro]>hecy 
overheard  by  the  Emj^eror  so 
many  years  ago  was  thus  fulfilled, 
in  spite  of  all  his  cruel  plotting 
against  it.  And  so  ha))py  were  the 
peoj)le  of  Pyzantium  in  the  hap- 
piness of  their  Princess,  after  the 
manner  of  such  sim])le  folk,  that 

no  mail  worked  in  the  city  for  the 

[  80  ] 


Kifig  Coustans  the  Emperor 

space  of  fifteen  days.  All  was 
eating  and  drinking  and  making 
merry  from  early  morn  far  into 
the  night. 

News  was  brought  to  the  Em- 
peror of  the  rejoicings  in  his  city 
and  much  he  marvelled  when  the 
story  was  told  him.  But,  being  a 
wise  man,  he  realized  that  his  per- 
secution of  Coustans,  so  long  and 
so  cruelly  waged,  must  as  fate  de- 
creed be  fruitless,  and  so  he  made 
no  more  fight  against  an  evident 
destiny,  but  peaceably  accepted 
his  son-in-law  and  showed  him 
great  honor,  making  him  a  knight 
and  heir  to  all  his  lands.  And  so 
it  befell  that  on  the  death  of  Mus- 
selin,  Coustans  ruled  over  Byzan- 
tium, according  to  the  prophecy, 
and   under  his   ride  the  land   be- 

[  «i  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

came  Christian.  Many  years  did  he  and 
his  wife  Hve  in  happiness  together,  and 
there  was  born  to  them  a  son  named  Con- 
stantine,  who  became  a  very  great  knight 
and  in  his  turn  ruled  over  Byzantium — 
from  his  time  onward  known  as  Constan- 
tinople, because,  as  was  previously  told, 
of  his  father  Coustans,  who,  the  good 
abbot  had  said,  had  cost  so  nnich  for  his 
healing. 


[82] 


BLONDE   OF  OXFORD 
AND   JEHAN  OF  DAMMARTIN 


!X!JJJ.,!.,l.M.U.M.M.M.!.l.'J.'Jl.!.t.M.'.l.'.l.'.I.UJJJJ.!A!JU!JJ 


IV 


Blonde  of  Oxford  and  Jehan   of 
Dammartin 

ri^HE  impoverished  nobleman 
-*-  in  search  of  his  fortune — or, 
more  strictly  speaking,  her  fortune 
— is  a  figure  that  has  met  with  all 
too  little  sympatliy.  The  romance 
of  his  position,  the  excitement  of 
his  adventure,  have  been  but  little 
recognized.  Far  back  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  however,  there 
was  a  certain  trouvere,  Philippe 
de  Reimes,  of  whom  nothing  is 
known  beyond  his  name  and  the 
two  metrical  romances  that  bear 
it,  who  saw  the  })oetry  and  pluck 

of  a  gentleman  thus  essaying  to  re- 

[85] 


?5f^--ri 


Romances  of  Old  France 

gild  the  family  escutcheon.  In  his  day 
Irench  noblemen  on  such  a  quest  made 
for  England,  as  nowadays  English  noble- 
men make  for  America.  England  was 
then,  it  would  appear,  the  heiress-produc- 
ing country,  and  in  his  moralistic  exor- 
dium to  the  charming  story  he  has  to  tell 
Philippe  de  Reimes  is  very  emphatic  on 
the  duty  of  a  poor  gentleman  thus  to  fare 
abroad,  instead  of  remaining  idle  at 
home,  "a  burthen  to  himself  and  to  his 
relatives  who  love  him."  "He  of  whom 
I  am  now  going  to  tell  you,"  he  con- 
cludes, "was  none  of  these  idlers,  but  he 
went  into  a  foreign  land  to  gain  renown 
and  honor — by  seeking  honor  he  arrived 
at  it,  and  I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened." 
All  good  fairy-tales  have  morals — to 
which  no  one  pays  the  least  attention. 
The   moral   is   like   a   grace   after   meat. 

Philippe  de  Reimes  puts  his  at  the  begin- 

[80] 


Blonde  and  'Jehan 

ning  instead  of  the  end,  and  then  pro- 
ceeds to  the  real  business  of  his  fancy,  the 
pretty  and  spirited  telling  of  a  story, 
which,  while  it  breathes  the  rose-garden 
fragrance  we  associate  with  the  w^ords 
"Old  France,"  is  alive  too  with  pictur- 
esque and  stirring  incident  and  telling 
strokes  of  character — the  romantic  his- 
tory of  Blonde  of  Oxford  and  Jehan  of 
Dammartin. 

Completely  to  fulfil  the  requirements 
of  romance,  Jehan  should  have  been  a 
younger  son.  As  it  was,  however,  he  was 
the  eldest  son  of  a  certain  aged  knight, 
renowned  for  arms  in  his  youth  and  for 
hospitality  in  his  age,  whose  lands  lay  at 
Dammartin,  in  the  Ile-de-France — acres 
broad,  but  alas!  mortgaged  by  the  old 
man's  youth.  A  wife  much  beloved  re- 
mained to  him,  with  two  daughters  and 

four  sons.     Now  when  Jehan  arrived  at 
[87] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

the  age  of  twenty,  he  reahzed  the 
family  situation,  and  determined 
to  do  wliat  in  liim  lay  to  repair  it. 
So,  taking  a  horse,  and  "twenty 
sols"  in  his  pocket,  and  a  "var- 
let"  to  name  Robin  for  his  squire 
— Robin  seems  to  be  a  favorite 
name  for  squires  in  romance — he 
set  out  for  England,  and,  ])resently 
arriving  at  Dover,  found  himself 
on  the  high-road  to  London,  On 
the  way  he  came  up  with  the  ret- 
inue of  a  great  lord  likewise  jour- 
neying to  London.  It  was  the 
Earl  of  Oxford.  Jelian  lost  no 
time  in  introducing  himself,  and 
telling  his  story,  with  the  result  that 
the  Earl  engaged  him  as  an  esquire 
of  his  household.  In  London 
Jehan,  as  his  esquire's  duty  was, 
carved  for  his  master  on  an  occa- 
[88] 


Blonde  arid  Jehan 
sion  when  the  Eail  was  dining  with 
the  King,  and  pei  formed  his  offiee 
so  adroitly  that  his  phiee  in  the 
EarFs  favor  was  at  once  secnre. 
So  skilfully,  indeed,  did  Jehan 
carve,  that  when  he  accompanied 
the  Earl  to  Oxford,  his  graceful 
manners  winning  the  Countess  at 
once,  he  was  appointed  to  wait  at 
table  upon  their  only  child,  the 
Lady  Blonde.  Jehan  of  Dammar- 
tin  was  a  French  gentleman  of 
blood  as  good,  doubtless,  as  the 
Earl  of  Oxford's,  but  he  did  not 
disdain  to  stand  before  the  young 
lady  of  the  house  and  carve  for  her, 
like  the  humblest  servitor.  Imag- 
ine certain  dukes  and  earls  one 
could  name  deferentially  perform- 
ing the  office  of  waiter  for  certain 
young  ladies  of  the  Middle  West. 
[  89  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
Philippe  de  Reimes  gives  us  a  long 
floriated  troubadourish  description  of  the 
beauty  of  Blonde  of  Oxford,  a  description 
running  to  hundreds  of  honeysuckle  lines, 
and  showing  him  quite  an  interesting 
master  of  the  literary  methods  of  his 
time. 

Now  Jehan  had  carved  for  his  beauti- 
ful young  mistress  for  the  space  of  eigh- 
teen weeks,  without  his  having  paid  any 
attention  to  the  charms  so  elaborately 
catalogued  by  Philippe  de  Reimes — so 
occupied  was  he,  it  would  appear,  with 
his  carving.  But  one  night  his  eyes  fell 
on  her  with  such  a  fixity  of  wonder  and 
love  that — he  forgot  his  carving.  Now 
for  Blonde  of  Oxford  up  till  this  time, 
and  long  after,  Jehan  of  Dammartin  was 
nothing  more  than  a  servant — with  cer- 
tain gifts,  it  is  true,  for  musical  instru- 
ments and  parlor  games,  which,  I  should 
[90] 


Blonde  and  "Jehiin 

have  said,  had  ah-eady  made  him  popular 
with  everyone  in  the  Earl  of  Oxford's 
house,  from  Earl  to  waiting-maid.  There- 
fore, when  his  eyes  forgot  his  carving  for 
her  face,  and  his  hands  lay  idly  on  each 
side  of  the  roast,  dreamily  grasping  the 
carving  knife  and  fork,  she  reprimanded 
him  with  the  directness  of  wealthy  young 
ladies  of  all  times  and  countries.  "  Je- 
han,"  said  she,  "carve — you  seem  beside 
yourself!" 

Jehan  took  the  rebuke  and — carved; 
but,  next  day  the  same  enchantment  be- 
fell him,  and  his  young  mistress  rebuked 
him  even  more  severely.  "Jehan,"  said 
she,  "carve.  Are  you  asleep,  or  are  you 
adream  ':■  If  you  please,  give  me  some- 
thing to  eat,  and  leave  your  dreaming  for 
the  present!" 

The  rhymes  in  the  old  French  give  a 

rather  comical  piquancy  to  the  reproach: 
[91] 


Komances  of  Old  France 

"Puis  li  redist:   'Jehan,  trenchies! 
Dormes-vous  chi,  ou  vous  songies  ? 
S'il  vous  plaist,  dones  m"  a  mengier; 
Ne  ne  wellies  or  plus  songier." 


This  time  the  rebuke  so  discon- 
certed poor  Jehan  that  he  cut  two 
of  his  fingers  and  was  obhged 
temporarily  to  depute  his  office 
to  another  esquire,  and  retire 
to  his  chamber.  There  he  hiy 
complaining  sadly  to  himself  of  a 
wound  much  deeper  and  more  im- 
portant than  the  wound  to  his  fin- 
gers; and,  presently,  to  his  de- 
lighted surprise,  his  young  niistress 
appeared  by  his  bedside  to  inquire 
about  his  fingers,  with,  however, 
nothing  more  than  the  conven- 
tional solicitude  of  a  mistress. 
"  Jehan,"  said  she,  "are  you  much 

hurt.^      Tell    me    how    you    are." 
[92] 


Blonde  and  "Jeha?! 

"Truly,  lady,"  he  replied,  "1 
know  not  how  it  hap})ened,  but  I 
cut  myself  to  the  })oiie.  But  it  is 
not  this  wound  that  grieves  me;  I 
think  I  have  some  other  disease, 
for  I  have  lost  all  my  spirits,  and 
have  been  unal)le  to  eat  either  yes- 
terday or  to-day;  and  I  feel  a 
great  fainting  of  the  heart,  that  I 
hardly  know  what  to  do."  ''Tru- 
ly, Jehan,  I  am  much  concerned 
at  that,"  said  the  Lady  Blonde 
courteously;  "you  must  pay  at- 
tention to  your  diet,  and  ask  for 
whatever  you  like  until  you  are 
restored."  "Lady,"  said  Jehan, 
"many  thanks!"  but  he  added  in 
a  whisper  between  his  teeth,  "La- 
dy, it  is  you  who  carry  the  key  of 
my  life  and  health,  of  which  1  am 


[  J^'^  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

Blonde,  however,  did  not  hear  these 
words,  and  it  was  not  till  Jehan  had  lain 
in  bed  for  five  weeks,  refusing  food,  and 
unresponsive  alike  to  the  skill  of  doctors 
and  the  kind  attentions  of  the  Earl  and 
Countess,  that  the  truth  began  to  dawn 
upon  her.  Yet,  even  so,  her  suspicion 
that  Jehan's  malady  was  the  old  malady 
of  love  awakened  within  her  as  yet  no 
reciprocal  sympathy.  Her  regret  for  Je- 
han's illness  seems  still  to  have  remained 
regret  for  Jehan  in  his  capacity  as — car- 
ver. Yet,  it  must  be  admitted  that  she 
was  prepared  to  do  a  great  deal  to  retain 
the  services  of  a  mere  serving-man.  Je- 
han must  have  been  a  wonderful  carver. 
When,  as  I  have  said,  he  had  lain  in  bed 
five  weeks,  and  his  life  was  desjjaired  of, 
the  Lady  Blonde  came  once  more  to  his 
bedside,  and  besought  him  to  tell  her  the 

truth   about   his   illness.      "Jehan,"   said 

[94] 


Blonde  and  Jehaji 

she,  "fair  friend,  tell  me  what  is  the  cause 
of  your  being  reduced  to  this  condition;  I 
wish  to  know,  and  therefore  tell  me,  and 
I  pray  you  by  the  duty  you  owe  me  not 
to  conceal  it  from  me.  I  give  you  my  true 
word  that,  if  I  can  find  a  cure  for  you,  you 
shall  be  no  longer  ill."  "Many  thanks, 
gentle  lady,"  answered  Jehan,  "your 
words  are  very  sweet;  but  know  that  I 
see  no  way  by  which  I  can  be  cured  of 
this  disease;  nor  have  I  sufficient  cour- 
age to  venture  on  saying  what  is  the  med- 
icine which  would  restore  me.  Never- 
theless, there  is  a  medicine  by  which,  if 
she  wdio  has  it  in  her  ])ower  would  ad- 
minister it,  I  should  no  doubt  be  relieved ; 
but  I  die  from  the  want  of  courage  to  de- 
clare it."  "  Jehan,  fair  friend,"  answers 
Blonde,  "you  shall  not  do  that;  for,  were 
you,  it  would  be  a  great  sorrow  to  me. 
Never  before  have  I  ])rayed  you  for  any- 
[  ^>-5  ] 


■,^    k#).Al*M 


Romances  of  Old  France 

tiling,  l)iit  now  I  })ray  tliis  of  you 
for  your  own  good;  tell  me  your 
malady,  and  I  swear  to  you  on  my 
life  that  I  will  labor  to  cure  you,  if 
only  I  know  what  ails  you."  "  Will 
you,  lady?"  "Yes,  truly;  now 
talk  to  me  without  fear."  "Lady, 
I  dare  not."  "Nonsense,  I  will 
know  it  one  way  or  other."  "If 
you  will,  lady,  then  you  shall  know 
it;    it  is  for  you  that  I  suffer." 

The  murder  was  out,  and  with 
the  strain  of  confession  Jehan 
fainted.  Blonde  brought  him 
back  to  life  with  caiesses  and 
soothing  words.  "Friend,"  said 
she,  "since  for  my  sake  you  have 
faced  the  })oint  of  death,  I  will 
give  you  comfort;  therefore,  ])ut 
your  trust  in  me,  and  think  only  of 

getting  well,  and  know  that  as  soon 

[OG] 


Blonde  afid  Jehan 
as  you  are  well  again  you  shall  he 
my  'hon  ami.'"  "Shall  1,  Lady? 
Is  it  truth  that  you  say?"  "Yes, 
friend,  be  assured  of  it."  "Then, 
lady,  I  shall  be  well  again,  for  1 
have  no  other  malady."  "Eat 
then,  fair,  sweet  friend,  and  let 
your  heart  be  at  ease."  "Lady,  I 
will  do  as  pleases  you;  when  you 
will,  I  will  eat." 

Now,  strange  as  it  may  sound, 
the  Lady  Blonde  was  through  all 
this,  thinking  of  Jehan  as  a  carver, 
and  not  for  a  moment  as  a  lover. 
She  feared  his  dying,  because  with 
his  death  she  would  lose  so  dexter- 
ous a  carver.  She  pretended  other- 
wise, as  we  have  seen,  merely  to 
resuscitate  him  at  table — as  poor 
Jehan    soon    discovered;     for    his 

rapid  recovery  was  to  prove  a  bitter 
[97] 


Ro??iances  of  Old  France 

disappointment.  In  a  night  or  two  he 
was  carving  for  Blonde  as  had  been  liis 
custom,  but,  as  he  furtively  and  huml^ly 
stole  a  glance  at  her  immortal  face,  he 
became  aware  that  she  had  forgotten  all 
she  had  said  by  his  sick-bed  —  that,  in 
fact,  he  was  once  more  a  servant. 

One  day  he  came  upon  her  in  a  mead- 
ow, weaving  a  chaplet  of  flowers,  and — 
reminded  her.  Somewhat  haughtily  and 
humorously  she  looked  up  at  him,  and 
frankly  acknowledged  that  she  had  been 
thus  complacent  merely  to  help  him  back 
to  health  again.  In  fact,  she  had  pre- 
tended to  love  him,  so  that  he  might  lise 
from  his  sick-bed  —  and  carve  for  her 
once  more. 

Jelian  had  only  to  realize  this  to  go 
back  to  bed  again,  and  in  a  day  or  two 
was  so  much  more  ill  than  before  that  his 

squire    Robin    aroused    the    maidens    of 

[08] 


Blonde  and  yehan 
Lady  Blonde's  bedcliamber  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night  with  the  news  that  Jehan 
was  dying. 

Hastily  drawing  a  **pelicon"  of  ermine 
around  her — for  beautiful  ladies  in  those 
days  went  to  bed  with  nothing  on — 
Blonde  hurried  to  Jehan's  bedside,  and, 
when  she  saw  how  far-spent  he  was  for 
love  of  her,  love  too  was  suddenly  born  in 
her  own  heart,  and,  overcome  with  pity 
for  poor  Jehan,  and  remorse  for  her  past 
cruelty  to  him,  she  fainted  away.  Pres- 
ently reviving,  she  loaded  him  with  ca- 
resses and  sweet  words,  so  that  Jehan, 
who  had  hardly  been  aware  of  her  pres- 
ence, slowly  came  back  to  life.  Then  she 
nursed  him  gently  after  the  manner  of 
fair  women  and  persuaded  him  to  eat 
some  cold  chicken  "an  verjus."  And  so 
she  stayed  with  him  till  daylight,  when 

they  parted  aflBanced  lovers,  and  Jehan 
[99] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

slept  for  the  first  time  in  eight  days. 
His  recovery  was  now  no  less  rapid 
than  before,  and  this  time  the  Lady 
Blonde  did  not  go  back  on  her 
word,  but  the  two  continued  to  be 
happy  secret  lovers  for  the  space 
of  two  years — though  Philippe  de 
Reimes  would  have  you  under- 
stand that  theirs  was  a  strictly 
innocent  love. 

This  beatific  state  of  things  was 
suddenly  l)roken  in  upon  by  news 
from  France.  Jehan's  father  was 
ill  and  had  sent  over  sea  for  his 
son.  Jehan's  grief  on  hearing  this 
news  was  great,  Init  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  it  was  not  entirely  filial 
in  its  origin.  The  Earl  and  Count- 
ess comforted  him  as  best  th.ey 
could,    but    he    had    to    wait    till 

nightfall    to    have    speech    of    his 

[100] 


Blonde  and  "Jt'/uifi 

lady.  Tliev  meet  at  last  in  tlie 
moonlit  orehard,  and  seated  side 
by  side  nnder  a  pear-tree  give  way 
at  once  to  their  love  and  their  sor- 
row. Philippe  de  Reimes  makes  a 
pretty  picture  of  it. 


" Beneath  a  pear-free  heaidiful 
Jchan  and  Blonde  sit  sorrowful; 
Weeping  sore  together  they. 
Tear-wet  cheek  on  cheek  they  lay. 
In  a  piteous  embrace 
Their  fair  bodies  interlace. 
For  their  hearts  with  grief  are  full 
Beneath  that  pear-tree  beautiful. 
Ere  they  have  power  to  speak,  full  fain 
Five  hundred  kisses  sweet  they  drain. 
And  fair  and  pleasant  seemed  y-wis 
Each  unto  each  such  services. 

Nor  was  there  any  unkissed  place. 
Nor  eyes,  nor  aught  of  either  face 
Left  of  their  lips  unmsited; 
The  while  the  bitter  tears  they  shed 
Their  faces  sweet  have  watered. 

The   lovers   then    agree  -  it   was 

the  Lady  Blonde's   heavenly  sug- 

[101] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
gestion — that,  though  they  must  part 
now,  they  will  meet  again  on  the  same 
night  on  the  following  year,  under  the 
same  pear-tree,  and  Blonde  will  fly  with 
Jehan  to  France.  The  lark  has  taken  the 
place  of  the  nightingale  and  the  moon  has 
long  since  left  the  orchard  before  they 
can  find  courage  to  part,  and  with  the 
morning  Jehan  and  his  trusty  Robin  ride 
away,  accompanied  by  two  palfreys  laden 
with  "white  sterlings,"  good  silver  money 
of  England,  the  parting  gift  of  the  Earl 
of  Oxford,  who  had  taken  leave  of  Jehan 
in  the  most  affectionate  manner.  Jehan 
must  return,  he  had  said,  and  he  would 
make  him  steward  of  all  his  lands.  "You 
shall  have  the  charge  of  everything,  and 
take  what  you  like,"  were  his  words,  and 
Jehan  had  answered,  with  a  tongue 
rather  saucily  addicted  to  plays  upon 
words,  "If  it  please  God,  I  will  return  one 
[  102  ] 


Blonde  ami  Je/iaTi 
day,  and  take  something  of  yours."     "In 
faith,"  the  Earl  liad  innocently  answered 
again,  "I  am  much  pleased  to  hear  it." 

In  due  course  Jehan  reaches  his  home 
at  Dammartin,  and  shortly  after  his  ar- 
rival his  father  dies,  and  Jehan  becomes 
his  heir.  He  goes  to  Paris  to  do  homage 
for  his  lands  to  the  King,  and  the  King  is 
anxious  to  take  him  into  his  service;  but 
Jehan,  with  his  heart  in  England,  has 
other  plans,  and  his  three  brothers  take  his 
place  in  the  royal  household.  Jehan,  re- 
turning to  Dammartin,  pays  his  father's 
debts  and  generally  sets  his  affairs  in 
order,  and  then,  as  the  months  begin  to 
go  by,  he  makes  the  mysterious  purchases 
of  a  choice  palfrey,  a  rich  "sambue,"  or 
lady's  saddle,  stuffed  with  cotton,  and  a 
silk  bridle.  It  will  soon  be  time  to  set 
out  for  "le  plus  bel  perier  du  monde." 

Meanwhile,  that  had  haj^pened  to  the 

[103] 


Romances   of  Old  France 

liady  151onde  which  both  had 
feared.  Her  father  had  insisted 
on  choosing  her  a  husband,  and 
the  l)ridegrooni  was  to  be  the  Earl 
of  Gloucester.  Blonde  succeeds  in 
ol)taining  four  months'  delay  on 
the  plea  of  mourning  for  her  moth- 
er, but  not  a  day  longer  will  her 
father  grant.  Now,  of  course,  the 
four  months  will  be  up  exactly  on 
the  day  she  has  promised  to  meet 
Jelian  under  the  pear-tree. 

At  length  the  time  comes  for  Je- 
han  to  start,  and  he  and  Robin 
and  that  daintily  caparisoned  pal- 
frey say  good-bye  to  Dammartin 
and,  reaching  the  sea-coast,  set 
sail  for  Dover.  On  landing  there 
Jehan  l)ays  the  shipman  ten 
pounds  to  await  his  return,  and 
takes  the  road  to  London.    Arrived 

r  10-11 


Blonde  and  ye/ian 
ill  London,  lie  l()(lo;es  at  a  fasliion- 
a})le  inn,  and  piosently  sannlers 
out  into  the  streets  to  \  iew  tlie 
town.  Soon  lie  eomes  upon  a 
great  crowd  of  l)iisy  j)eople,  and, 
on  inquirv,  he  learns  that  it  is  the 
retinue  of  the  Earl  of  (jdoucester, 
who  is  passing  through  London 
on  his  way — to  marry  the  Earl  of  f^, 
Oxford's  daughter.  The  marriage 
had  lieen  delayed  four  months,  but 
the  Earl  is  to  marry  her,  Jelian 
learns,  on  the  very  day  of  the 
pear-tree.  His  heait  sinks  at  the 
news,  but  his  faithful  Rol)in  reas- 
sures him,  hittino;  on  the  rii^ht  ex- 
plaiiation  that  Blonde  Inid  ar- 
ranged the  four  months'  delay  in 
order  to  keep  her  faith  with  him. 

On  the  morrow,  Jelian  and  the 
Earl  of  Gloucester  take  the  Oxford 
[  K'-'  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

road  about  the  same  time,  and,  the  two 
parties  coming  up  with  each  other,  the 
Earl,  perceiving  that  Jehan  is  a  French- 
man, addresses  him  courteously  in  bad 
French,  asking  his  name.  Jehan  answers 
that  his  name  is  Gautier,  and  that  he 
comes  from  Montdidier.  The  Earl  makes 
a  rude  jest  on  his  name,  and  then  ofl'ers 
to  buy  the  palfrey.  Jehan,  pretending  to 
be  a  dealer,  affects  assent,  but  asks  so 
large  a  price  for  it  that  the  Earl  thinks 
him  a  fool,  and  declines  the  bargain. 

Thus  they  ride  on  in  company  and  the 
journey  gives  Jehan  the  opportunity  for 
some  more  of  his  saucy  humor.  Toward 
evening  a  storm  comes  on,  and  the  Earl, 
wdio  is  very  richly  dressed,  is  wet  through, 
his  robe  of  "green  sendal"  being  ruined. 
"If  I  were  a  rich  man  as  you  are,"  mocks 
Jehan,  "I  would  always  carry  a  house 
with  me  in  which  I  could  take  shelter;  I 
[  106  ] 


Blonde  and  "Je/iiin 
should  not  then  be  soiled,  or  be  wet,  as 
you  are." 

This  remark  confirmed  the  Earl's  opin- 
ion that  Jehan  was  a  fool — like  all  French- 
men, for  that  matter! 

Again,  later  on,  they  come  to  a  river, 
which  has  to  be  crossed  by  a  ford.  The 
Earl  misses  the  ford,  is  carried  off  into 
the  deep  water  and  has  to  be  rescued  by 
fishermen;  while  Jehan  and  Robin  cross 
over  dry-shod.  "If  I  had  such  a  multi- 
tude of  followers,'"  was  Jehan's  sarcastic 
comment,  "I  would  always  carry  a  bridge 
with  me,  so  that  I  could  pass  every  river 
with  ease." 

This  remark  hugely  tickled  the  Earl 
and  his  followers,  who  once  more  laughed 
heartily  at  Jehan  for  a  fool.  Neverthe- 
less, the  Earl  seems  to  have  been  taken 
with  Jehan,  and,  as  they  near  Oxford,  in- 
vites the  further  j^leasure  of  his  societv. 
f  107  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
But  Jehan  ie])lies  that  his  way 
takes  him  tliroiigh  a  l)y-road,  as 
near  there  he  had  once  seen  a  fair 
hawk  for  whicli  he  had  hiid  a 
snare,  and  lie  must  now  go  to  see 
if  it  is  caught.  Once  more  the 
Earl  is  convinced  of  his  folly,  for 
by  this  time  surely,  he  laughs,  net 
and  bird,  if  caught,  will  both  be 
rotten.  And  with  this  final  sally, 
the  Earl  goes  his  way  and  Jehan 
his. 

Meanwhile,  the  castle  of  Ox- 
ford is  all  a-hum  with  guests 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  Earl, 
and  Blonde  is  awaiting  the  night 
and  the  coming  of  Jehan.  She 
seems  to  have  had  no  misgivings, 
but  as  night  falls,  contriving  to 
steal  away  from  her  relatives,  she 
packs  her  jewels  into  a  casket,  and 
\  108  ] 


Blonde  and  "Jchan 
takes   her   stand    under   the   pear- 
tree   with   perfect  confidence — the 
most    beautiful    pear-tree    in    the 
world! 

As  we  know,  her  faith  was  not 
in  vain,  and  she  has  not  long  to 
wait  before  Jehan  appears,  punc- 
tual to  the  second,  to  take  into  his 
arms  that  "something"  of  the 
Earl  of  Oxford's  he  had  promised 
to  steal.  After  the  first  customary 
transports,  the  lovers  waste  no 
more  time  in  caresses,  but  soon 
the  white  palfrey  is  carrying  its 
delicious  burden  on  the  way  to 
France,  and  Jehan  and  Robin  are 
keeping  a  sharp  look-out  for  dan- 
ger. They  avoid  the  highway  and 
take  their  course  through  by-path 
and  woodland,  travelling  by  night 

and   resting   by   day,    and   a   very 

[109] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
pretty  journey  they  make  of  it.  The  in- 
dispensable Robin  looks  after  the  larder. 
\Ahile  the  lovers  lie  hidden  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest  he  repairs  to  the  nearest 
town  and  comes  back  laden  with  cakes, 
white  bread,  and  pasties  of  capons,  not  to 
mention  "wine  in  two  barrels." 

'"Robin  loads  Jii.s  Jior.sc's  pack. 
To  those  lovers  carries  hack 
Capon  pasties  and  white  bread 
To  the  place  where  they  are  hid; 
And  wine  there  was,  for  barrels  two 
Went  ever  ivith  those  lovers  true. 
Upon  the  green  grass  then  they  spread 
A  napkin  fair  emhroidere'd , 
And  eat  beneath  the  brandling  boughs. 
Close  at  hand  their  liorses  browse. 
And  Robin  every  need  supplies 
With  his  ever  watchful  eyes. 
When  on  pasties  and  white  bread 
The  happy  lovers  thus  are  fed, 
hi  each  other's  arms  all  day 
They  kiss  and  talk  the  time  away; 
Much  and  sweet  they  had  to  say. 
And  the  woods  with  them  rejoice. 
All  the  greenness,  the  sweet  noise 
Of  nightinr/alc  and  mavis  call, 
[110] 


Blonde  and  Je/mn 

And  the  other  birdies  small 

That  sweetly  in  their  vnldirood  Latin 

Woodland  vesper  sing  and  matin. 

X aught  tJiese  lovers  doth  annoy. 

Hearing  is  enough  of  joy. 

And  irith  other  such  deligJits 

Pass  their  happy  days  and  nights.'^ 

Meanwhile,  of  course,  things  had  been 
happening  in  the  castle  of  Oxford.  On 
his  arrival,  the  Earl  of  Gloucester  had 
been  anxious  to  see  his  young  wife  with- 
out delay,  and  Blonde  had  been  sent  for. 
Not  being  found,  her  father  had  at  first 
assumed  that  she  had  hidden  herself 
away  for  some  mysteries  of  the  feminine 
toilet,  in  order  to  make  herself  especially 
beautiful  for  her  bridegroom,  and,  while 
they  awaited  her,  the  Earl  of  Gloucester 
filled  in  the  time  by  anecdotes  of  the 
'good  fooK  of  a  Frenchman,  a  droll 
fellow,  whom  he  had  met  on  the  way. 
As     he     talked,    there     was     something 

about     the     anecdotes     that     irresistibly 
[HI] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

reminded  the  Earl  of  Oxford  of 
Jehan,  and,  the  Lady  Blonde 
continuing  to  be  missing,  her 
father  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  Earl's  fellow-traveller  had 
indeed  been  Jehan  of  Dammar- 
tin,  who  had  come  to  keep  his  word 
and  carry  off  that  "something" 
that  was  his.  He  confided  his 
fears  to  the  Earl  of  Gloucester, 
with  the  result  that  the  Earl  im- 
mediately sets  off  in  pursuit  of 
the  poor  lovers,  with  a  great  com- 
pany of  men-at-arms,  thunder- 
ing along  the  highways  toward 
Dover. 

But,  of  course,  Jehan  had  not 
overlooked  this  danger,  and  when 
at  last  his  little  cavalcade  is  in 
sight    of   the    sea,    he    hides    with 

Blonde  in  a  forest,  and  sends  out 
[112] 


Blonde  and  "Jehan 
Robin  in  disguise  to  reconnoitre. 
Robin  finds  all  the  roads  senti- 
nelled by  the  Earl's  retainers,  and 
the  boat  which  was  faithfully 
awaiting  them  watched  by  four 
men-at-arms.  But  he  contrives  to 
get  speech  of  the  shipman,  whom 
he  finds  loyal,  and  arranges  with 
him  the  details  of  the  desperate 
embarkation  they  are  to  attempt 
that  midnight.  The  shipman's 
heart  is  with  the  lovers,  and  there 
are  twenty  stout  lads  on  his  ship 
to  lend  a  hand.  So  night  comes 
and  Jehan  and  the  wdiite  palfrey 
and  Robin  steal  softly  out  of  the 
woods  toward  the,  unfortunately, 
moonlit      strand.  The      Earl's 

watchers    are    on    the    alert,    and 
immediately     attack     them.       As 

there  are  but  four  of  them,  how- 
[113] 


Ro??iances  of  Old  France 
ever,  it  is  an  easy  matter  for  Jehan 
to  dispose  of  three.  But  the  fourth 
has  time  to  blow  a  horn  which  brings 
the  Earl  and  his  retinue  immediately 
upon  the  scene.  Then  follows  a 
spirited  piece  of  fighting  which  shows 
Philippe  de  Reimes  as  a  poet  of  vigor  as 
w^ell  as  of  nio-htinf^ales : 

"  la  douce  noise 
Des  mauvis  et  des  roussignos." 

Need  one  say  that,  in  spite  of  the  Earl's 
superior  forces,  Love  was  too  strong  for 
him  ?  Unhorsed  by  Jehan,  he  lay  dan- 
gerously w^ounded  on  the  sand,  half  his 
retainers  dead  and  the  rest  in  panic;  and 
so  at  last  the  white  palfrey  may  delicately 
step  aboard  and  the  sails  fill  out  for  Bou- 
logne and  Dammartin. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  just — happy 
ending.     Surely  no  reader  will  need  to  be 

told  how  the  King  of  France  bestirred 

[lU] 


Blonde  a?id  'Jehan 

himself  on  behalf  of  the  two  lovers  and 
won  for  them  the  not  difhcult  forgiveness 
of  the  Earl  of  (Oxford,  who  had  always 
had  a  weakness  for  Jehan;  how  the  Earl 
made  a  splendid  visit  to  Dammartin, 
how  honors  were  hea}3ed  upon  Jehan, 
how  Blonde  bore  him  four  children,  "the 
most  beautiful  in  the  world,"  and  how, 
when  his  father-in-law  died,  Jehan  be- 
came Earl  of  Oxford  as  well  as  Count  of 
Dammartin,  and  how  Jehan  lived  to  en- 
joy all  this  good  fortune  for  thirty  years. 

So  fate  blesses  a  true  love  and  honors 
it — sometimes. 

The  reader's  prayers  are  requested  for 
the  repose  of  Philippe  de  Rheims,  whose 
soul,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  is  long  since  in 
Paradise : 


Pour  cou  n'  oblierai-ge  mie 
Que  je  lie  vous  pri  et  requier 
Que  vous  voellies  a  Dieu  priier 
[115] 


Romances  of  Old  F> 


ranee 


Que  Phclippe  dc  Reim  gart 
Et  de  paradis  li  douist  part* 

*  The  writer  is  indebted  for  this  story 
to  tlie  complete  text,  edited  by  M.  LeRoux 
de  Lincy,  and  published  by  the  Camden 
Society. 


[IIG] 


AUCASSIN  AND  NICOLETE 


!ajJO.'.I.M..MiM.'ili.'.l.M.M.M.'.l.'.l.'J.'tl.M.'.l.!.gJn 


Aucassin  and  Nicolete  * 

rpHOUGH  the  song-story— "  cante- 
-^  fable" — "C'est  d'Aucassin  et  de 
Nicolete,"  has  long  had  an  antiquarian 
interest  for  scholars,  it  is  only  during 
the  last  twenty  years  or  so  that  it  has 
taken  its  place  in  the  living  literature  of 
the  world,  and  given  two  of  the  most  fra- 
grant names  to  the  mythology  of  lovers. 

Monsieur  Bida  in  France,  and  Mr. 
Andrew    Lang    and    Mr.   F.   W.   Bour- 

*  Although  this  sketch  of  Aucassin  and  Nico- 
lete was  embodied  in  the  companion  volume  to 
this,  "  Old  Love  Stories  Retold,"  it  is  nevertheless 
so  typical  a  romance  of  Old  France,  that  I  have 
ventured  to  reprint  it  here  in  its  more  accurate 
classification. 

[119] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
dillon  in  England,  are  to  be 
thanked  for  rescuing  this  precious 
pearl  from  the  dust-heaps  of  phil- 
ological learning.  In  England  Mr. 
Bourdillon  was  first  with  a  very 
graceful  and  scholarly  translation. 
Yv^alter  Pater  in  his  famous  essays 
on  "The  Renaissance"  early  di- 
rected to  it  the  attention  of  ama- 
teurs of  such  literary  delicacies; 
but  practically  Mr.  Lang  is  its 
sponsor  in  English,  by  virtue  of  a 
translation  which  for  freshness  and 
grace  and  tender  beauty  may  well 
take  the  place  of  the  original  with 
those  of  us  for  whom  Old  French 
has  its  difficulties.  Nine  years  be- 
fore, Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Sted- 
man  had  introduced  the  lovers  to 
American  readers  in  "A  Masque 
of  Poets."  There  in  a  single  lyric 
[  130  ] 


Aucassin  and  Nicolete 


Mr.  Stedman  lias  so  skilfully  con- 
centrated the  romance  of  the  old 
story  that  I  venture  to  quote  from 
it,  particularly  as  Mr.  Stedman 
has  done  readers  of  his  poetry  the 
mysterious  unkindness  of  omitting 
it  from  his  collected  poems : 

"  Within  the  garden  of  Biaucaire 
He  met  her  by  a  secret  stair, — 
The  night  was  centuries  ago. 
Said  Aucassin,  'My  love,  my  pet. 
These  old  confesso/s  vex  me  so! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
Unless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle,' — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

" '  Now,  who  should  there  in  heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres-douce  mie  ? 
To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met ; — 
All  the  old  cripples,  too,  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling. 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring' ; — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

" '  To  purgatory  I  would  go 

With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 

[  121  ] 


'Romances  of  Old  France 

Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  knights 
Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 
The  captains  of  a  hundred  fights. 
The  men  of  valor  and  degree : 
We'll  join  that  gallant  company,' — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 


Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings 
And  they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings 
Are  gathered  there,  so  blithe  and  free ! 
Pardie !  I'd  join  them  now,  my  pet. 
If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mie! 
The  joys  of  heaven  I'd  forego 
To  have  you  with  me  there  below,' — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette." 

Here  the  three  notes  of  the  old  song 
story  are  admirably  struck :  the  force  and 
freshness  of  young  passion,  the  trouba- 
dourish  sweetness  of  literary  manner,  the 
rebellious  humanity.  Young  love  has 
ever  been  impatient  of  the  middle-aged 
wisdom  of  the  world,  and  fiercely  re- 
sisted the  pious  or  practical  restraints  to 
its  happiness ;  but  perhaps  the  rebellious- 
ness of  young  hearts  has  never  been  so 
[  122  ] 


Aucassin  and  Nicolete 
audaciously  expressed  as  in  "Aucassin 
and  Nicolete."  The  absurdity  of  parents, 
who,  after  all  these  generations  of  ex- 
perience, still  confidently  op])ose  them- 
selves to  that  omnipotent  passion  which 
Holy  Writ  itself  tells  us  many  waters 
cannot  quench;  the  absurdity  of  thin- 
blooded,  chilly  old  maids  of  both  sexes 
who  would  have  us  believe  that  this 
warm-hearted  ecstasy  is  an  evil  thing,  and 
that  prayer  and  fasting  are  better  worth 
doing — not  in  the  most  "pagan"  litera- 
ture of  our  own  time  have  these  twin  ab- 
surdities been  assailed  with  more  out- 
spoken contempt  than  in  this  naive  old 
romance  of  the  thirteenth  century.  The 
Count  Bougars  de  Valence  is  at  war  with 
Count  Garin  de  Biaucaire.  The  town 
of  Biaucaire  is  closely  besieged  and  its 
Count  is  in  despair,  for  he  is  an  old  man, 
and  his  son  Aucassin,  who  should  take 
[  123  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 
his  place,  is  so  overtaken  with  a 
hopeless  passion  that  he  sits  in  a 
lovesick  dream,  refusing  to  put  on 
his  armor  or  to  take  any  part  in 
the  defence  of  the  town.  His 
father  reproaches  him,  and  how 
absolutely  of  our  own  day  rings 
his  half-bored,  half-impatient  an- 
swer. "'Father,'  said  Aucassin, 
'I  marvel  that  you  will  be  speak- 
ing. Never  may  God  give  me 
aught  of  my  desire  if  I  be  made 
knight,  or  mount  my  horse,  or  face 
stour  and  battle  wherein  knights 
smite  and  are  smitten  again,  un- 
less thou  give  me  Nicolete,  my  true 
love,  that  I  love  so  well.   .   .   .'" 

Father — caiii  you  understand  .^ 
How  strange  old  people  are!  Don't 
you  see  how  it  is  .^ 

"Father,  I  marvel  that  you  will 
[  12^  ] 


Aucassin  and  Nicolcte 

be  speaking!"  It  is  the  eternal  ex- 
elamation,  the  universal  shrug,  of 
youth  confronted  by  "these  te- 
dious old  fools!" 

Now  Nicolete  is  no  projjer 
match  for  Aucassin,  a  great 
Count's  son — though,  naturally, 
in  Aucassin's  opinion,  "if  she  were 
Empress  of  Constantinople  or  of 
Germany,  or  Queen  of  France  or 
England,  it  were  little  enough  for 
her" — because  she  is  "the  slave 
girl"  of  the  Count's  own  Captain- 
at-arms,  who  had  bought  her  of  the 
Saracens,  reared,  christened  and 
adopted  her  as  his  "  daughter-in- 
God."  Actually  she  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  King  of  Carthage,  though 
no  one  in  Biaucaire,  not  even  her- 
self, knows  of  her  high  birth.    The 

reader,  of  course,  would  naturally 

[125] 


Ro??iances  of  Old  France 
guess  as  much,  for  no  polite  jongleur  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  addressing,  as  he  did, 
an  audience  of  the  highest  rank,  would 
admit  into  his  stories  any  but  heroes  and 
heroines  with  the  finest  connections. 

Father  and  son  by  turns  have  an  in- 
terview with  the  Captain.  The  Captain 
promises  the  Count  to  send  Nicolete  into 
a  far  country,  and  the  story  goes  in  Biau- 
caire  that  she  is  lost,  or  made  away  with 
by  the  order  of  the  Count.  The  Captain, 
however,  having  an  affection  for  his 
adopted  daughter,  and  being  a  rich  man, 
secretes  her  high  up  in  "  a  rich  palace  with 
a  garden  in  face  of  it."  To  him  comes 
Aucassin  asking  for  news  of  his  lady. 
The  Captain,  with  whose  dilemma  it  is 
possible  for  any  one  not  in  his  first  youth 
to  sympathize,  lectures  Aucassin  not  un- 
kindly after  the  prescribed  formulas.     It 

is  impossible  for  Aucassin  to  marry  Nico- 
[  126] 


Aucassin  and  Nicolete 

lete,  and  were  lie  less  honest,  hell  wonlcl 
be  his  portion  and  Paradise  closed  against 
him  forever.  It  is  in  answer  to  this 
admirable  common  sense  that  Aucassin 
flashes  out  his  famous  defiance.  "Para- 
dise!" he  laughs — "in  Paradise  what 
have  I  to  win  ?  Therein  I  seek  not  to  en- 
ter, but  only  to  have  Nicolete,  my  sweet 
lady  that  I  love  so  well.  For  into  Para- 
dise go  none  but  such  folk  as  I  shall  tell 
thee  now:  Thither  go  these  same  old 
priests,  and  halt  old  men  and  maimed, 
who  all  day  and  night  cower  continually 
before  the  altars  and  in  the  crypts;  and 
such  folk  as  wear  old  amices  and  old 
clouted  frocks,  and  naked  folk  and  shoe- 
less, and  covered  with  sores,  perishing  of 
hunger  and  thirst,  and  of  cold,  and  of 
little  ease.  These  be  they  that  go  into 
Paradise;   with   them   have  I   naught  to 

make.    But  into  hell  would  I  fain  go;  for 
[127] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

into  hell  fare  the  goodly  clerks, 
and  goodly  knights  that  fall  in 
tourneys  and  great  wars,  and  stout 
men-at-arms,  and  all  men  noble. 
With  these  would  I  liefly  go.  And 
thither  pass  the  sweet  ladies  and 
courteous  that  have  two  lovers,  or 
three,  and  their  lords  also  thereto. 
Thither  go  the  gold,  and  the  silver, 
and  cloth  of  vair,  and  cloth  of  gris, 
and  harpers,  and  makers,  and  the 
princes  of  this  world.  With  these 
I  would  gladly  go,  let  me  but  have 
with  me  Nicolete,  my  sweetest 
lady." 

Aucassin's  defiance  of  priests  as 
well  as  parents  is  something  more 
significant  than  the  impulsive  ut- 
terance of  wilful  youth.  It  is  at 
once,  as  Pater  has  pointed  out, 
illustrative  of  that  humanistic  re- 
[  128  ] 


Aucassin  and  Nicolete 
volt  against  the  ideals  of  Christian 
asceticism  which  even  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  was  already  beginning — 
a  revolt  openly  acknowledged  in 
the  so-called  Renaissance,  and  a 
revolt  growingly  characteristic  of 
our  own  time.  The  gospel  of  the 
Joy  of  Life  is  no  mere  heresy 
to-day.  Rather  it  may  be  said 
to  be  the  prevailing  faith.  Aii- 
cassin's  spirited  speech  is  no  longer 
a  lonely  protest.  It  has  become  a 
creed. 

Finding  Aucassin  unshaken  in 
his  determination,  the  Count  his 
father  bribes  him  with  a  promise 
that,  if  he  will  take  the  field,  he 
shall  be  permitted  to  see  Nicolete 
— "even  so  long,"  Aucassin  stipu- 
lates, "that  I  may  have  of  her  two 
words  or  three,  and  one  kiss." 
[  129  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

The  compact  made,  Aiicassin  does  so 
mightily  "with  his  hands"  against  the 
enemy  that  he  raises  the  siege  and  takes 
prisoner  the  Count  Bougars  de  Valence. 
But  the  father  refuses  the  agreed  reward 
— and  here,  after  the  charming  manner 
of  the  old  story-teller  himself,  we  may 
leave  prose  awhile  and  continue  the  story 
in  verse — the  correct  formula  is  "Here 
one  singeth:" 

"When  the  Count  Garin  doth  know 

That  his  child  would  ne'er  forego 

Love  of  her  that  loved  him  so, 

Nicolete,  the  bright  of  brow. 

In  a  dungeon  deep  below 

Childe  Aucassin  did  he  throw. 

Even  there  the  Childe  must  dwell 

In  a  dun-walled  marble  cell. 

There  he  waileth  in  liis  woe, 

Crpng  thus  as  ye  shall  know : 
'  Nicolete,  thou  lily  white, 

]My  sweet  lady,  bright  of  brow, 

Sweeter  than  the  grape  art  thou. 

Sweeter  than  sack  posset  good 

In  a  cup  of  maple  wood  .  .  . 
[130] 


Aucassin  and  Nicolete 

"My  sweet  lady,  lily  white, 
Sweet  thy  footfall,  sweet  thine  eyes, 
And  the  mirth  of  thy  replies. 

"'Sweet  thy  laughter,  sweet  thy  face, 
Sweet  thy  lips  and  sweet  thy  brow. 
And  the  touch  of  thy  embrace. 
"Who  but  doth  in  thee  delight  .^ 
I  for  love  of  thee  am  bound 
In  this  dungeon  underground, 
All  for  loving  thee  must  lie 
Here  where  loud  on  thee  I  cry, 
Here  for  loving  thee  must  die, 
For  thee,  my  love.'  " 

Now  Nicolete  is  no  less  whole-hearted 
and  indomitable  in  her  love  than  Aucas- 
sin. She  is  like  a  prophecy  of  Rosalind 
in  her  adventurous,  full-blooded  girlhood. 
When  her  master  has  locked  her  up  in  the 
tower,  she  loses  no  time  in  making  a  vig- 
orous escape  by  that  ladder  of  knotted 
bedclothes  without  which  romance  could 
hardly  have  gone  on  existing.  Who  that 
has  read  it  can  forget  the  picture  of  her 

as  she  slips  down  into  the  moonlit  garden, 
[131] 


'Romances  of  Old  France 

and  kilts  up  her  kirtle  "because  of 
the  dew  that  she  saw  lying  deep 
on  the  grass"  ? — 

"Her  locks  were  yellow  and 
curled,  her  eyes  blue  and  smiling, 
her  face  featly  fashioned,  the  nose 
high  and  fairly  set,  the  lips  more 
red  than  cherry  or  rose  in  time 
of  summer,  her  teeth  white  and 
small;  her  breasts  so  firm  that 
they  bore  up  the  folds  of  her  bod- 
ice as  they  had  been  two  apples; 
so  slim  she  was  in  the  waist  that 
your  two  hands  might  have  clipped 
her,  and  the  daisy  flowers  that 
brake  beneath  her  as  she  went 
tiptoe,  and  that  bent  above  her 
instep,  seemed  black  against  her 
feet,  so  white  was  the  maiden." 

As  Nicolete  steals  in  the  moon- 
light to  the  ruinous  tower  where 
[132] 


Aiicassin  and  Nicolete 
her  lover  lies,  she  hears  liim 
"wailing  within,  and  making  dole 
and  lament  for  the  sweet  lady  he 
loves  so  well."  The  lovers  snatch 
a  perilous  talk,  while  the  town's 
guards  pass  down  the  street  with 
drawn  swords  seeking  Nicolete, 
but  not  remarking  her  crouched 
in  the  shadow  of  the  tower.  How 
Nicolete  makes  good  her  escape 
into  the  wildwood  and  builds  a 
bower  of  woven  boughs  with  her 
own  hands,  and  how  Aucassin 
finds  her  there,  and  the  joy  they 
have,  and  their  wandering  together 
in  strange  lands,  their  losing  each 
other  once  more,  and  their  final 
happy  finding  of  each  other  again 
— "by  God's  w^ill  w^ho  loveth  lov- 
ers"— is  not  all  this  written  in  the 

Book  of  Love  't — 

[133] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

"Sweet  the  song,  the  story  sweet. 
There  is  no  man  hearkens  it, 
No  man  hving  'neath  the  sun 
So  outwearied,  so  foredone. 
Sick  and  woful,  worn  and  sad, 
But  is  healed,  but  is  glad, 
'Tis  so  sweet." 

The  story  is  simple  enough,  of  a  pat- 
tern old  and  familiar  as  love  itself,  but 
the  telling  of  it  is  a  rare  achievement  of 
art,  that  art  which  is  so  accomplished 
as  to  be  able  to  imitate  simplicity;  for, 
roughly  connected  as  are  certain  parts 
of  the  story,  "Aucassin  and  Nicolete"  in 
the  main  is  evidently  the  work  of  one  who 
was  a  true  poet  and  an  exquisite  literary 
craftsman.  The  curious,  almost  unique 
form  of  it  is  one  of  its  most  characteristic 
charms;  for  it  is  written  alternately  in 
prose  and  verse.  The  verse  sometimes 
repeats  in  a  condensed  form  what  has 
already  been  related  in  the  prose,  some- 
times elaborates  upon  it,  and  sometimes 
[  134  ] 


Aucassin  and  Nicolete 

carries  on  the  story  independently.  The 
formula  with  which  the  prose  is  intro- 
duced is:  "So  say  they,  speak  they,  tell 
they  the  Tale,"  and  the  formula  for  in- 
troducing the  verse,  as  already  noted,  is: 
"Here  one  singeth."  These  formulas, 
and  the  fact  that  the  music  for  some  of 
the  songs  has  come  down  to  us  on  the 
precious  unique  manuscript  preserved  in 
the  Bibliotheque  Nationale,  lead  critics 
to  think  that  the  romance  was  probably 
presented  by  a  company  of  jongleurs, 
with  music,  and  possibly  with  some  dra- 
matic action.  The  author  is  unknown, 
and  the  only  reference  to  him  is  his  own 
in  the  opening  song: 

"  Who  would  list  to  the  good  lay, 
Gladness  of  the  captive  gray  ?  " 

M.  Gaston  Paris  suggests  that  the  "viel 

caitif"   lived   and   wrote   in  the  time   of 

Louis  VH.  (1130),  and  Mr.  Lang  draws 
[135] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

a  pretty  picture  of  the  "elderly, 
nameless  minstrel  strolling  with 
his  viol  and  his  singing-boys  .  .  . 
from  castle  to  castle  in  'the  happy 
poplar  land.'"  Beaucaire  is  bet- 
ter known  now^adays  for  its  an- 
cient fair  than  for  its  lovers.  Ac- 
cording to  tradition,  that  fair  has 
been  held  annually  for  some- 
thing like  a  thousand  years — and 
our  lovers  have  been  dead  al- 
most as  long.  Still,  thanks  to 
the  young  heart  of  that  unknown 
old  troubadour,  their  love  is  as 
fresh  as  a  may-bush  in  his  songs, 
the  dew  is  still  on  the  moonlit 
daisies  where  Nicolete's  white  feet 
have  just  passed,  and  her  bower 
in  the  wildwood  is  as  green  as  the 
day  she  wove  it  out  of  boughs  and 

flowers.     As  another  old  poet  has 
[136] 


Aiicassin  and  Nicokte 

siino",  "the  world  might  find  the 
spring  by  foUowing  her" — so  ex- 
qnisitely  vernal  is  the  spirit  that 
breathes  from  this  old  song  story. 
To  read  in  it  is  to  take  the  ad- 
vice given  to  Aucassin  by  a  cer- 
tain knight.  "Aucassin,"  said  the 
knight,  "of  that  sickness  of  thine 
have  I  been  sick,  and  good  coun- 
sel will  I  give  thee :  .  .  .  mount  thy 
horse,  and  go  take  thy  pastime  in 
yonder  forest ;  there  w^ilt  thou  see 
the  good  flowers  and  grass,  and 
hear  the  sweet  birds  sing.  Per- 
chance thou  shalt  hear  some  word, 
whereby  thou  shalt  be  the  better." 
The  reader  will  do  well  to  take 
the  knight's  advice,  and  follow 
into  the  woodland  "the  fair  white 
feet  of  Nicolete." 

[Note  :    The  reader  may  care  to  com- 
pare Walter  Pater's    translation    of   the 
[137] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

description  of  Nicolete  with  Mr.  Lang's  given  on 
page  139 :  "  Her  hair  was  yellow  in  small  curls,  her 
smiling  eyes  blue-green,  her  face  clear  and  feat, 
the  little  lips  very  red,  the  teeth  small  and  wliite; 
and  the  daisies  which  she  crushed  in  passing,  hold- 
ing her  skirt  high  behind  and  before,  looked  dark 
against  her  feet;  the  girl  was  so  white!"] 


[138] 


THE  HISTORY  OF  OVER  SEA 


/ 


T 


f^ 


t.?.l,.!.I.'.».!,T.!.».MJX!JJJJ.L!.L'.l.!.t.!.».M.!.U'J.M.MJ.l.!.LM..M...M 


VI 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 


/^NE  of  the  great  charms  of 
^^  mediaeval  story  is  the  ro- 
mantic indefiniteness  of  the  geog- 
raphy, as  also  its  subhme  inde- 
pendence of  formal  historical 
events.  As  we  have  seen  in  the 
tale  of  Xing  Coustans,  the  story- 
teller is  in  no  wise  abashed  by  the 
discrepancies  between  his  version 
of  the  origin  of  Constantinople 
and  the  version  of  tlie  official 
historians.  Anachronism  has  no 
terrors  for  him,  and  yon  can  be- 
lieve  him   or   not   as   you   please. 

Of  course,   you   prefer  to  believe 
[141] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

him.  Similarly  the  events  of  the  mediae- 
val story-teller  take  place  in  countries  for 
which  you  will  look  in  vain  on  the  map, 
but  he  were  dull,  indeed,  and  hard  to 
please,  who  would  demand  the  latitude 
and  longitude  of  such  realms  of  old 
romance  as  Belmarye  and  Aumarie. 
Such  a  one  might  at  the  same  time  de- 
mand an  exact  localization  of  the  Forest 
of  Arden  or  the  Woods  of  Broceliande. 
Even  places  that  are  to  be  found  on 
earthly  maps  take  on  a  certain  mythical 
unreality  from  the  romantic  atmosphere; 
and  such  places  as  Acre  and  Joppa,  for 
example,  seem  rather  to  belong  to  dream- 
land than  to  geography. 

The  scene  of  "The  History  of  Over 
Sea"  is  situated  partly  in  "Aumarie," 
ruled  over  by  that  potentate  of  romance 
known    as    "the    Soudan" — how    much 

more    suggestive    than     "Sultan" — and 
[  142  ] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

partly  in  an  old  France  hardly  less 
mythical.  It  opens  in  "  Ponthieu,"  which 
once  npon  a  time  was  ruled  over  by  a 
certain  Count  of  Ponthieu,  a  very  valiant 
and  good  knight.  In  his  near  neighbor- 
hood lived  another  great  lord,  the  Count 
of  St.  Pol.  Now  Count  St.  Pol  had  no 
son,  so  his  nephew  Thibault,  son  of  his 
sister.  Dame  of  Dontmart  in  Ponthieu, 
was  his  heir.  The  Count  of  Ponthieu 
had  one  fair  daughter,  whose  name  the 
chronicler  does  not  deem  it  necessary  to 
give,  she  being  a  mere  woman;  and  by  a 
second  wife  he  had  a  son,  and  both  son 
and  daughter  he  loved  much.  Now  my 
Lord  of  Thibault,  though  heir  to  his 
uncle,  was  a  poor  man,  and  must  needs 
work  for  his  living,  as  only  gentlemen 
could  work  in  those  days,  with  his  lance 
and  sword.     Therefore,  having  won  the 

approval   of  the   Count   of  Ponthieu,   he 
[143] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

became  one  of  the  knights  of  his 
retinue,  and  rode  with  him  to 
tournaments;  and  in  these  and 
other  warhke  expeditions  he  did 
so  vahantly  and  profitably  for  his 
master  that  the  Count  was  highly 
pleased  with  him.  One  day  as 
they  returned  together  from  a 
tournament,  the  Count  called  him 
to  his  side  and  said: 

'"Thibault,  as  God  may  help 
thee,  tell  me  what  jewel  of  my 
land  thou  lovest  the  best.'" 

"'Sir,'  answered  Thibault,  'I 
am  but  a  poor  man,  but  as  God 
may  help  me,  of  all  the  jewels  of 
thy  land  I  love  none  so  much  as 
my  damosel,  thy  daughter.'" 

The  Count,  when  he  heard  that, 
was    much    merry    and   jo}^ul    in 

his  heart,   and  said:    '"Thibault, 

[1-44] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

1  will  give  her  to  thee  if  she  will.'" 
"'Sir,'  said  he,  '  miieh  great  thanks 
have  thou;    God  reward  thee.'" 

Then  went  the  Count  to  his 
daughter,  and  said  to  her:  '"Fair 
daughter,  I  have  married  thee, 
save  by  thee  ]:>e  any  hindrance.' 
'Sir,'  said  she,  'unto  whom.^'  'A 
— God's  name,'  said  he,  'to  a  much 
valiant  man,  of  much  avail:  to  a 
knight  of  mine  who  hath  to  name 
Thibault  of  Dontmart.'  'Ha,  sir,' 
said  she,  'if  thy  country  were  a 
kingdom,  and  should  come  to  me 
all  wholly,  forsooth  I  should  hold 
me  right  well  wedded  in  him.' 
'Daughter,'  said  the  Count,  'bless- 
ed be  thine  heart,  and  the  hour 
wherein  thou  wert  born.'" 

So    all    is    well,    and    my    Lord 

Thibault  and  the  Count's  daugh- 
[145] 


Rofnances  of  Old  France 

ter  are  married,  and  live  happily  to- 
gether for  five  years.  They  had  but  one 
sorrow.  "It  {^leased  not  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  that  they  should  have  an  heir  of 
their  flesh,  which  was  a  heavy  matter  to 
them." 

One  night  as  Thibault  lay  by  the  side 
of  his  sleeping  wife,  he  pondered  much 
on  this  sorrow  of  theirs,  and  why  it 
should  be,  seeing  that  they  loved  each 
other  so  well,  and  the  thought  came  to 
him  of  "  St.  Jakeme,  the  Apostle  of  Ga- 
licia,"  who  was  said  to  befriend  such  as 
were  thus  denied  the  gift  of  children. 
Presently  his  wife  awoke,  and  taking  her 
in  his  arms  he  begged  a  gift  of  her. 
"'Sir,'  said  the  dame,  'and  what  gift.^' 
'Dame,'  said  he,  'thou  shalt  wot  that 
when  I  have  it.'  'Sir,'  she  said,  'if  I  may 
give  it,  I  will  give  it,  whatso  it  may  be.' 

'Dame,'  said  he,  'I  crave  leave  of  thee 

[146] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

to  go  to  my  lord  St.  Jacque  the  Apostle, 
that  he  may  pray  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
to  give  us  an  heir  of  our  flesh,  whereby 
God  may  be  served  in  this  world,  and 
the  Holy  Church  refreshed.'  'Sir,'  said 
the  dame,  'the  gift  is  full  courteous,  and 
much  debonairly  will  I  grant  it  thee.'" 

A  night  or  two  after,  as  they  were 
again  lying  side  by  side,  the  wife  speaks. 

Sir,'  said  she,  '  I  pray  and  require  of 
thee  a  gift.'  'Dame,'  said  he,  'ask,  and 
I  will  give  it,  if  give  it  I  may.'  'Sir,'  she 
said,  'I  crave  leave  of  thee  to  go  with 
thee  on  thy  journey.'" 

Thibault  was  sorrowful  to  hear  this, 
and  said:  "'Dame,  grievous  thing  w^ould 
it  be  to  thine  heart,  for  the  w^ay  is  much 
longsome,  and  the  land  is  much  strange 
and  much  diverse.'  She  said :  '  Sir,  doubt 
thou   naught   of  me,   for  of  such   littlest 

squire  that  thou  hast  shalt  thou  be  more 

[147] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

hindered    than    of    me.'     'Dame,' 

said  he,  'A — God's  name,  I  grant 

it  thee.'" 

So   it   was   arranged,  and   in   no 

great  while  Thibault  and  his  wife 

start  out  on  their  pilgrimage,  the 

Count  of  Ponthieu  having  smiled 

upon  their  departure,  and  bestowed 

upon    them    "pennies"    for    their 

journey.    At  first  all  goes  well  with 

them  on  the  road,  and  at  length 

they  come  to  a  town  within  two 

days'  journey  of  the  saint.     Here 

they  put  up  for  the  night,  and  on 

the   morrow,   asking  the   landlord 

concerning   the   w^ay   they   should 

take    and    the    condition    of    the 

roads,  he  makes  a  fair  report,  and 

once  more  they  start  out  with  a 

good  heart.     After  journeying  for 

some  time  thev  come  to  a  forest, 
['l48] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

and  presently  find  themselves  at  a 
parting  of  the  ways.  There  are 
two  roads,  one  to  all  appearance 
good,  and  one  bad,  and  they  know 
not  which  to  take,  Thibault,  his 
wife,  and  chamberlain,  have  rid- 
den ahead  of  the  retinue,  and,  the 
place  seeming  lonesome  and  threat- 
ening, Thibault  sends  back  his 
chamberlain  to  bring  up  his  ser- 
vants. Meanwhile,  further  exam- 
ining the  roads,  he  decides  to  take 
the  good  one,  not  suspecting  that 
certain  forest  thieves  thus  made 
the  bad  road  seem  good  as  a  trap 
for  unwary  travellers.  For  the 
space  of  a  quarter  of  a  league  the 
road  continued  broad,  but  sud- 
denly it  grew  narrower,  and  ob- 
structed with  low-hanging  boughs ; 

and  Thibault  turned  to  his  wife 
[149] 


Rofnances  of  Old  France 

with  misgiving:  "'Dame,'  said  he,  'me- 
seemeth  that  we  go  not  well.' " 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  his  lips, 
than  there  came  in  sight  four  stout  fellows 
mounted  on  four  great  horses,  and  each 
rider  held  a  spear  in  his  hand.  Turning 
to  look  behind  him,  Thibault  is  aware 
of  four  others  similarly  mounted  and 
armed,  and  presently  one  of  the  first  four 
rides  at  him  with  drawn  sword.  Thi- 
bault, who  is  unarmed,  contrives  to  evade 
the  stroke,  and  also  to  snatch  the  sword 
from  the  robber's  grasp.  With  it,  by 
God's  help,  he  is  able  to  slay  three  of  the 
eight  thieves,  but  the  combat  is  too  un- 
ecjual,  and  presently  he  is  overpowered 
and  stripped  of  his  raiment.  The  thieves 
then  bind  him  hand  and  foot  with  a 
sword-belt  and  cast  him  into  a  bramble- 
bush.     Turning   then   to   his   lady,   they 

take  and  strip  her  in  like  manner  even 
[150] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

unto  her  smock,  and  tlien  fall  to  dis- 
puting among  themselves  as  to  whose 
prize  she  shall  be. 

"'Masters,'  said  one  of  them  to  his 
fellows,  'I  have  lost  my  brother  in  this 
stour,  therefore  will  I  have  this  Lady  in 
atonement  thereof.'  Another  said:  'But 
T  also,  I  have  lost  my  cousin-german; 
therefore  I  claim  as  much  as  thou  here- 
in; yea,  and  another  such  right  have  I.' 
And  even  in  such  wise  said  the  third  and 
the  fourth  and  the  fifth;  but  at  last  said 
one:  'In  the  holding  of  this  Lady  ye 
have  no  great  getting  or  gain;  so  let  us 
lead  her  into  the  forest  here,  and  do  our 
will  on  her,  and  then  set  her  on  the  road 
again  and  let  her  go.'  So  did  they  even 
as  they  devised,  and  set  her  on  the  road 
again." 

Meanwhile,  Thibault,  lying  in  the 
bramble-bush,  had  seen  all  that  befell 
[151] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

in  agony  of  soul,  and  here  comes  in 
a  curious  side- light  on  the  position 
of  woman  in  tlie  middle  ages.  It 
would  not  occur  to  us  to-day  that 
Thibault's  dame  could  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  what  had  happened 
to  her,  and  indeed  Thibault  readily 
allows  that  it  was  all  against  her 
will  and  gives  her  his  assurance 
that  he  will  not  hold  it  in  any  way 
against  her;  but  he  does  so  with 
an  evident  sense  of  his  peculiar 
magnanimity,  an  evident  feeling 
that  all  husbands  would  not  have 
been  so  lenient.  His  wife,  beside 
herself  with  the  anguish  of  her 
humiliation,  very  evidently  ex- 
pected no  such  clemency,  and 
indeed  is  unable  to  believe  that 
her    lord    really    means    what    he 

says.     So  when  he  calls  to  her  to 

[152] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

release  him  from  his  bands,  she, 
spying  a  sword  left  behind  from 
the  combat,  takes  it  in  her  hand, 
and,  distraught  as  she  is  with 
shame  and  fear  of  her  husband, 
endeavors  to  smite  instead  of  re- 
leasing him.  The  stroke,  how- 
ever, misses  him,  and  severs  the 
thongs,  so  that  he  springs  to  his 
feet,  and,  taking  the  sword  from 
her,  says :  " '  Dame,  so  please  God, 
no  more  to-day  shalt  thou  slay 
me;'  to  which  she  humbly  answers: 
'Of  a  surety,  sir,  I  am  heavy 
thereof.' "  Thibault  seems  to  bear 
her  no  ill-will  for  her  action,  but, 
laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
he  leads  her  back  along  the  road 
till  they  meet  his  retinue,  by 
whom  they  are  soon  provided  with 
changes  of  raiment,  and  fresh 
[  153  ] 


Ro??iances  of  Old  France 
horses,  and  so  once  more  continue  their 
way  to  St.  Jakeme,  or  St.  Jacqne.  At  the 
next  town  Thibault  leaves  his  wife  in  the 
care  of  some  good  sisters,  and  proceeds 
toward  the  saint  alone.  His  pilgrimage 
accomplished  to  his  satisfaction,  he  re- 
turns for  his  Lady,  and  both  take  the 
home  journey  together  for  Ponthieu,  he, 
says  the  old  story-teller,  evidently  feeling 
it  a  matter  for  emphasis,  treating  her 
"with  as  much  great  honor  as  he  had  led 
her  away,  save  the  lying  a-bed  with  her." 
During  the  day  of  festivity  which  sig- 
nalized their  return  home,  the  Count  of 
Ponthieu  and  his  son-in-law  sat  together 
at  table,  familiarly  eating  from  one  dish; 
and  presently  the  Count  asked  Thibault 
to  tell  him  for  his  entertainment  some 
tale  from  his  travels,  either  some  expe- 
rience of  his  own,  or  some  of  which  he 

had   heard.     Thibault   at   first   professed 
[15-t] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

ignorance  of  any  sucli  story  to  tell,  but, 
on  the  Count's  continuino;  to  uro^e  him, 
he  withdrew  him  away  from  the  rest  of 
the  company  and  proceeded  to  tell  his 
own  story,  though  without  revealing  the 
identity  of  the  j^ersons  involved.  When 
the  story  was  ended,  the  Count  asked 
Thibault  what  the  knight  had  done  with 
the  lady,  and  the  conversation  which 
ensues  gives  lurid  evidence  that,  after 
all,  Thibault  was  an  exceptional  hus- 
band for  those  days.  He  gave  answer 
to  the  Count  that  "the  knight  had 
brought  and  led  the  Lady  back  to  her 
own  country,  with  as  much  great  joy 
and  as  much  great  honor  as  he  had 
led  her  thence,  save  lying  in  the  bed 
whereas  lay  the  lady." 

"'Thibault,'  said  the  Count,  'other- 
wise deemed  the  knight  than  I  had 
deemed;    for  by  the  faith  which  I  Dwe 


Komances  of  Old  France 

unto  God,  and  unto  thee,  whom 
much  I  love,  I  woukl  have  hung 
the  Lady  by  the  tresses  to  a  tree 
or  to  a  bush  or  by  the  very  girdle  if 
none  other  cord  I  might  find.' 

"'Sir,'  said  Messire  Thibault, 
'naught  so  certain  is  the  thing  as 
it  will  be  if  the  Lady  shall  ])ear 
witness  thereto  with  her  very 
body.'" 

Other  times,  other  manners,  in- 
deed! Xo  one  seems  to  give  a 
thought  to  the  shameful  suffering 
of  the  Lady  herself.  It  would 
seem  as  though  the  crime  had 
been  committed  entirely  against 
the  husband  and  the  father.  The 
Count  now  grows  curious  as  to 
the  name  of  the  knight,  and, 
though     Thibault     endeavors     to 

dissuade    him,    will    not   be   gain- 
[156] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

said.  His  persistence  })reaks  clown 
Thibault's  resolution  and  at  last 
he  tells  the  full  truth.  But  the 
Count's  savage  sense  of  justice 
is  by  no  means  weakened  by  the 
shame  being  thus  brought  so 
near  home.  "Much  grieving  and 
abashed,  he  held  his  peace  a  great 
while,  and  spake  no  word;  and 
when  he  spoke  he  said:  'Thi- 
bault,  then  to  my  daughter  it  was 
that  this  adventure  betid  .^'  'Sir,' 
said  he,  'of  a  verity.'  'Thibault,' 
said  the  Count,  '  well  shalt  thou  be 
avenged,  since  thou  hast  brought 
her  back  to  me.' 

"And  because  of  the  great  ire 
which  the  Count  had,  he  called 
for  his  daughter,  and  asked  her  if 
that  were  true  which  Messire  Thi- 
bault had  said;  and  she  asked 
[157] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

'  What  ? '  and  he  answered :  '  This,  that 
thou  wouklst  have  slain  him,  even  as  he 
hath  tokl  it  ? '  '  Sir,'  she  said,  '  yea.'  '  And 
wherefore,'  said  the  Count,  'wouldst  thou 
have  done  itr'  'Sir,'  said  she,  'hereto, 
for  that  it  grieveth  nie  that  I  did  it  not; 
and  that  I  slew  him  not!'" 

To  say  the  least.  Dame  Thibault's 
answer  was  hardly  politic  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  may  perhaps  set  one  thinking 
that  the  mediaeval  husband  cannot  be 
judged  by  our  mild  modern  conditions. 
After  all,  when  a  wife  expresses  her  re- 
gret in  cold  blood  that  she  had  not  mur- 
dered her  husband,  we  can  hardly  be 
surprised  if  that  husband  hangs  her  by 
her  hair  to  the  next  tree.  But  the 
Count  of  Ponthieu,  all)eit  he  was  her 
father,  was  planning  for  her  a  still  more 
terrible  punishment. 

We  next  find  him    at    a   little  seaport 

riosi 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

which  the  story-teller  familiarly  refers  to 
as  "Riie-on-Sea,"  as  if  there  were  any 
such  place,  and  his  daughter,  his  son 
and  his  son-in-law  are  with  him  there. 
The  Count  is  there  on  grim  business. 
First,  he  has  made  for  him  an  immense 
barrel,  very  strong  and  thick,  and  hav- 
ing shipped  this  on  board  a  stout  craft, 
he  bids  his  daughter  and  his  son  and 
Thibault  come  aboard  with  him,  and 
thereon  they  are  rowed  out  to  sea,  none 
save  the  Count  knowing  the  meanino;  of 
their  trip.  When  they  had  gone  some 
two  leagues,  the  Count  smote  off  the 
head  of  the  barrel,  and  paying  no  heed 
to  her  frenzied  entreaties  or  those  of  her 
companions,  he  compelled  his  daughter 
to  get  into  the  barrel.  Then,  replacing 
the  staves  and  having  made  all  water- 
tight, he  thrust  the  barrel  over  the  boat's 

side  into  the  sea,  saying,    "I  commend 
[159] 


Komances  of  Old  France 

thee  unto  the  winds  and  waves." 
So  had  Perseus  and  his  mother 
Danse  been  cast  adrift  by  the 
angry  king  centuries  ago,  and,  as 
even  a  heathen  providence  had 
taken  pity  upon  a  weak  woman  in 
a  Hke  extremity,  it  was  not  to  be 
thouglit  that  in  Christian  times 
such  distress  should  go  unsuc- 
cored;  "but  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  wdio  willeth  not  the  death 
of  sinners  -be  they  he  or  she," 
quaintly  remarks  the  pious  story- 
teller, "but  that  they  may  turn 
from  their  sins  and  live,  sent 
succor  unto  the  Lady." 

It  chanced  that  a  short  while 
after  the  Lady  Thibault  had  thus 
been  commended  unto  the  winds 
and   the   waves,  a  merchant   ship 

outward     bound     from     Flanders 
[160] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 
passed  by  where  the  great  barrel 
was  rolHng  to  and  fro  upon  the 
waters.  Being  espied  by  one  of 
the  merchants,  it  was  hauled  on 
board,  and  great  was  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  voyagers  on  discover- 
ing its  strange  cargo.  The  poor 
Lady  was  far  spent  with  lack  of 
air,  but  the  ministrations  of  her 
rescuers  soon  brought  her  to  her- 
self, and  "she  ate  and  drank  and 
became  much  fair."  So  fair,  in- 
deed, did  she  seem  in  the  sight  of 
the  merchantmen,  that,  when  at 
length  they  arrived  at  "Aumarie," 
it  occurred  to  them  that  they  might 
turn  her  beauty  to  good  account 
with  the  Soudan,  who,  like  all 
Soudans  before  and  since,  was  a 
lover  of  fair  women.     So,  attiring 

her  in  fair  apparel,  they  brought 

[161] 


e-^ 


Romances  of  Old  France 

her  as  a  gift  to  the  Soudan,  who  was  a 
young  man  and  as  vet  unwed.  The 
Soudan,  who  was  nol)le  and  gentle  of 
nature,  treated  her  with  great  distinction, 
but  in  vain  asked  her  to  reveal  her  name 
and  people.  However,  he  perceived  her 
to  be  of  high  lineage,  and,  being  captivated 
with  her  beauty,  begged  her  to  renounce 
her  religion  and  become  his  wife.  Real- 
izing that  her  only  hope  of  escape  was 
through  his  love,  the  Lady  Thibault  con- 
sented, and,  having  recanted  Christianity, 
she  became  the  Soudan's  wife  according 
to  the  laws  of  the  Saracens,  and  she  and 
her  Saracen  husband  appear  to  have  lived 
very  peacefully  together;  for  as  a  husband 
the  Soudan  seems  to  compare  most  favor- 
ably with  the  Christian  Thibault.  In  due 
course,  and  with  appropriate  rejoicings,  a 
son  is  born  to  them,  and  again  a  daughter, 
and  the  years  begin  to  go  by. 
[  162  ] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

Meanwhile,  the  conscience  of  the  Count 
of  Ponthieu  grows  more  and  more  troub- 
lesome for  the  crime  committed  in  his 
anger  against  his  daughter,  and  her  hus- 
band and  brother  are  likewise  haunted 
with  the  thought  of  her.  At  length  the 
Count  confesses  his  sin  to  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Rheims,  and  his  son-in-law  and 
his  son  alike  make  confession,  and  all 
three  take  the  vow  of^ilgrimage  Over 
Sea,  that  is,  to  the  Holy  Land.  Pres- 
ently setting  out  on  their  journey,  they 
arrive  over  sea,  and  having  visited  all  the 
shrines  and  holy  places,  they  give  them- 
selves to  the  service  of  the  Temple  at 
Jerusalem  for  the  space  of  a  year.  Thus 
having  eased  their  souls,  they  bethink 
them  once  more  of  this  world  and 
Ponthieu,  and  presently  take  ship  at 
Acre    on    their    homeward    voyage.     At 

first  the  w^inds  and  the  waves,   to  which 
[163] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

the  Count  had  commended  his 
daughter  are  favorable,  but  one 
day  a  storm  arises,  and  their  only 
hope  from  shipwreck  is  to  take 
refuge  in  the  land  of  Aumarie,  in 
spite  of  the  risk  they  thus  run  at 
the  hands  of  the  heathen  Saracens. 
However,  a  deferred  death  })y 
martyrdom  seems  preferable  to  im- 
mediate death  in  the  sea,  so  they 
make  for  the  nearest  port  in  Au- 
marie. As  they  run  in  towards 
shore,  they  are  boarded  by  a 
wSaracen  galley,  and  taken  prison- 
ers, and  their  captors,  as  they  had 
foreseen,  made  a  present  of  them 
to  the  Soudan,  captured  Christians 
being  a  particularly  ingratiating 
gift  to  Saracen  monarchs.  The 
Soudan  had  them  cast  into  dif- 
ferent prisons,  with  heavy  chains 
[164] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

and  little  food,  and  generally  they 
were  treated  with  much  hardship. 
And  so  they  abode  in  prison  many 
days,  knowing  nothing  of  their 
nearness  to  the  Lady  Thibault, 
she  being  no  less  ignorant  of  them. 
At  length  the  Soudan's  birthday 
came  round,  and  as  the  custom 
was,  the  people  came  to  him  and 
demanded  their  yearly  right — "a 
ca])tive  Christian  to  set  up  at  the 
butts."  The  Soudan  granted  them 
their  request  as  a  matter  of  course. 
" '  Go  ye  to  the  gaol,'  said  he,  '  and 
take  him  who  has  the  least  of  life 
in  him.'"  On  going  to  the  gaol, 
the  Count  of  Ponthieu,  emaciated, 
and  with  matted  hair  and  beard, 
seemed  to  have  little  enough  life  in 
him  to  serve  their  purpose,  so  when 
thev  brought  him  before  the  Soudan 
[  105  ] 


Ro??iances  of  Old  France 
he  bid  them  take  the  old  man  away  and 
do  their  will  upon  him.  But  as  the 
Soudan's  lady,  sitting  by  the  side  of  her 
lord,  looked  on  the  poor  captive,  some- 
thing stirred  in  her  heart,  and  it  was  as 
though  her  very  blood  told  her  who  the 
captive  was,  though  her  eyes  had  not 
recognized  him.  So  turning  to  the  Sou- 
dan she  said:  "'Sir,  I  am  French,  where- 
fore I  would  willingly  speak  to  yonder 
poor  man  before  he  dieth,  if  it  please 
thee.'  'Yea,  dame,'  said  the  Soudan, 
'it  pleases  me  w^ell.'"  Coming  to  the 
captive,  the  lady  Thibault  asked  him  of 
what  land  he  was  and  what  kin  and  he 
answered  sorrowfully:  '"Lady,  I  am  of 
the  Kingdom  of  France,  of  a  land  which 
is  called  Ponthieu;  and  certes,  dame,  it 
may  not  import  to  me  of  what  kin  I  be, 
for  I  have  suffered  so  many  pains   and 

griefs  since  I  departed  that  I  love  better 

[166] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

to  die  than  to  live;  but  so  much  can  I 
tell  thee  of  a  sooth,  that  I  was  the  Count 
of  Ponthieu.'" 

When  his  daughter  hears  this,  with- 
out revealing  her  identity,  which  the  old 
Count  had  not  suspected,  she  goes  to  her 
lord,  the  Soudan,  saying:  "'Sir,  give  me 
this  captive,  if  it  please  thee,  for  he 
knoweth  the  chess  and  the  tables,  and 
fair  tales  withal,  which  shall  please  thee 
much;  and  he  shall  play  before  thee  and 
learn  thee.'  'Dame,'  said  the  Soudan, 
'by  my  law,  wot  that  with  a  good  will 
I  give  him  thee;  so  do  with  him  as  thou 
wilt.'" 

The  jailers  then  led  out  Thibault,  and 
again  his  wife  asks  for  speech  with  him, 
and  again  begs  him  of  the  Soudan, 
and  again  her  request  is  granted.  Her 
brother  is  then  brought  out,  with  the 
same  result.  He  too  knows  the  chess 
[  107  ] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

and  the  tables!  '"Dame,  said 
the  indulgent  Soudan,  'by  my 
law,  were  there  an  hundred  of  them 
I  would  give  them  unto  thee  will- 
ingly.'" What  is  a  captive  Chris- 
tian more  or  less!  So  the  Lady 
Thibault's  kindred  thus  pass  into 
her  safekeeping,  and  the  populace 
are  just  as  much  pleased  with  an- 
other Christian  prisoner,  who,  un- 
fortunately not  being  acquainted 
with  the  Soudan's  lady,  passes 
duly  to  his  martyrdom. 

The  Soudan's  lady  then  pro- 
ceeds to  nurse  and  nourish  her 
captives,  sore  wasted  with  their 
stay  in  prison,  and  provides  them 
with  fitting  raiment,  so  that  at 
length  they  are  restored,  and  daily 
play  at  the  chess  and  the  tables 

before  her,  and  the  Soudan  him- 
[168] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 
self  takes  pleasure  in  their  coin- 
panv.  But,  all  this  time,  the  dame 
wisely  refrains  from  discovering 
herself.  Now,  after  some  time  has 
gone  by,  a  neighboring  Soudan 
goes  to  war  with  the  Soudan  of 
Aumarie,  and  herein  the  Soudan's 
lady  sees  an  opportunity  of  escape. 
Going  to  her  kinsmen,  she  asks 
them  still  more  particularly  about 
themselves  and  their  histories,  end- 
ing w^ith:  "'And  thy  daughter, 
whom  this  knight  had,  wdiat  be- 
came of  her.^'" 

"'Lady,'  said  the  Count,  'I 
trow  that  she  be  dead.'  'What 
wise  died  she  t '  quoth  she.  '  Certes, 
Lady,'  said  the  Count,  'by  an 
occasion  which  she  had  deserved.' 
'And   what   was   the   occasion.^'" 

said  the  lady. 

[169] 


Romances  of  Old  France 

The  Count  then  related  the  whole 
history,  and  when  he  comes  to  where 
his  daughter  raised  the  sword  against 
her  husband,  the  wife  of  the  Soudan 
exclaims:  '"Ha!  sir!  thou  sayest  the 
sooth;  and  well  I  know  wherefore  she 
would  to  do  it.'  'I)ame,'^said  the  Count, 
'and  wherefore?'  'Certes,'  quoth  she, 
'for  the  great  shame  which  had  befallen 
her.'" 

Thibault  then  protests  with  tears  that 
he  would  not  have  held  her  blameworthy. 
'"Sir,  that  she  deemed  naught,'"  an- 
swered the  Lady.  Then  she  falls  to 
questioning  them  as  to  wdiether  they 
think  the  Count's  daughter  alive  or 
dead.  '"Dame,  we  wot  not,'  they  an- 
swer. 'But  if  it  pleased  God,'  she  con- 
tinued, 'that  she  were  alive,  and  that  ye 
might    have    of    her    true    tidings,    what 

would  ye  say  thereto.^'" 
[170] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

Ail  protest  tliat  to  see  her  alive  again 
would  be  better  than  to  be  out  of  prison, 
better  than  to  be  King  of  France,  better 
than  to  be  endowed  with  all  the  riches 
of  the  world;  and  softened  with  these 
answers,  she  at  length  reveals  herself, 
and  unfolds  her  plans  for  their  escape 
to  Ponthieu.  First  Thibault  must  ac- 
company the  Soudan  in  battle,  and  trust 
to  winning  his  good-will  by  his  valor, 
and  this  part  of  the  plan  is  accomplished 
with  such  brilliant  success  to  the  Sou- 
dan's arms  that  Thibault  is  at  once  set 
high  in  his  favor.  He  offers  Thibault 
wide  lands  and  a  rich  wife,  if  only  he 
will  become  a  Saracen.  The  Soudan's 
Lady  temporizes  for  him,  and  meanwhile, 
falling  ill,  informs  her  lord  that  she  is 
with  child,  and  that  she  has  been  warned 
that  she  w^ll  die  if  she  is  not  presently 

taken    to    some    other    soil    aw^ay    from 
[171] 


Komances  of  Old  France 

the  city.  The  ever-indulgent  Sou= 
dan,  for  whom  one  begins  to  feel 
sorry,  immediately  falls  in  with  his 
wife's  wishes,  and  has  a  ship  pre- 
pared for  her  that  she  may  voyage 
to  whatever  land  she  deems  good — 
so  simple  as  well  as  gentle  was  the 
redoubtable  Soudan  of  Aumarie. 
His  Lady  begs  to  take  her  old  and 
young  captives  for  her  entertain- 
ment, cunningly  proposing  to  leave 
Thibault  behind.  The  Soudan 
grants  this  request  also,  but  demurs 
to  her  leaving  Thibault.  So  brave 
a  warrior  will  be  a  great  protection 
for  her  on  her  voyage,  he  says. 
So  presently  all  four  are  aboard, 
and  she  has  taken  with  her  also 
the  Soudan's  little  son — which 
seems  hardly  fair.  And  now, 
'"if  God  please,  we  shall  yet  be 
[  1T2  ] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

in  France   and  the  land   of  Pon- 
thieu.'" 

After  a  while  the  mariners  come 
to  a  port  on  the  French  coast, 
another  seaport  in  the  moon, 
called  "Brandis."  Here  is  the 
good  land  where  the  Lady  would 
be  set  down,  and  once  safely  on 
land  with  her  companions  she 
turns  to  the  mariners.  " '  Masters ', 
she  says,  'get  ye  back  and  tell  to 
the  Soudan  that  I  have  taken  from 
him  my  body,  and  his  son  whom 
he  loved  much,  and  that  I  have 
cast  forth  from  prison  my  father, 
my  husband,  and  my  brother.'" 
With  this  message  the  mariners 
must  needs  return  disconsolately 
to  Aumarie;  and  the  moral  of  the 
story,  when  you  come  to  reflect 
that  her  Christian  kinsmen  had 
[  178  ] 


Ro??iances  of  Old  France 

set  her  adrift  in  a  barrel,  and  her  "pay- 
nim"  lord  had  ever  been  a  gentle  loving 
husband,  is,  to  say  the  least,  cynical  and 
hardly  calculated  to  encourage  Saracen 
potentates  in  clemency  towards  Christian 
captives. 

However,  these  happy  people  of  Pon- 
thieu  appear  to  have  given  little  thought 
to  the  feelings  of  the  Soudan,  but  as 
soon  as  possible  repair  to  Rome,  where 
"the  Apostle"  sets  the  Lady  Thibault 
"in  right  Christendom"  once  more,  and 
thence  to  Ponthieu,  and  a  future  filled 
with  "great  joy"  and  "great  pleasure," 
and  all  manner  of  good  fortune  and 
honors. 

Incidentally,  it  must  be  told  that  the 

Lady  Thibault's  daughter  by  the  Soudan 

whom  she  had  left  behind  in  Aumarie, 

and  who  was  known  as  the  Fair  Caitif, 

grew  up  passing  fair,   and,   being  given 
[174] 


The  History  of  Over  Sea 

in  marriage  to  the  famous  Turk,  "Mala- 
kin,"  became  through  him  the  grand- 
mother of  the  great  Salachn.  So,  at  all 
events,  says  the  old  romancer. 


[175] 


20 


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